The Serpentine Chain Part One
by Fidelis Haven
Summary: 1943: Grindelwald's forces threaten Europe and family loyalty is everything for Constance Malfoy and Aurelius Snape, who tread a narrow path between the Light and Dark. Chapter 19: Bloodlust. All AU after HBP & DH.
1. Year of the Snake

Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it's not mine. Do I have to say more?

The Serpentine Chain Part One

Chapter One – Year of the Serpent

"Two new teachers," Constance Malfoy whispered to her neighbour, Richard Marlowe. Looking away from where the Slytherin first years were gathered at the foot of the table, the brown haired sixth year glanced up towards the staff table. Headmaster Dippet was making his usual start of term speech – welcoming the new students and running through the rules and regulations of the school. There were indeed two new additions to the staff. A tall, thin man with untidy brown hair was sitting in between the Potions master and the Head of Ravenclaw, Lydia Grey. He was tapping his fingers on the table, somewhat nervously. At the other end of the table there was a woman, red hair scraped severely back into a chignon, dressed immaculately in expensive looking charcoal grey robes.

"One's got to be Divination," Richard whispered back. "Haven't a clue who the other one is, though."

A pale faced boy sitting on the other side of Constance leaned forwards slightly, and broke in, saying, "The scared looking one is Christopher Cale – he's taking the upper years for Chantwork."

"Singing?!" whispered Richard, horrified. His musical inability was well known to Slytherin students.

The pale boy smirked, pushing back long dark hair from his face. "It's not a compulsory course, don't worry. Students who don't study Ancient Runes aren't eligible anyway – you need to be proficient in that to read the Chant scripts."

Richard Marlowe relaxed somewhat, to Constance's amusement. Brilliant at anything involving numbers, he'd taken Arithmancy instead of Ancient Runes. Changing the subject, he whispered "What house, do you think?"

"Ravenclaw, definitely," said Constance, in tones that would brook no argument. "He _looks _like one."

  
Aurelius Snape nodded. "He was friends with my cousin when they were students here. That's how I know him – he's visited once or twice."

"That takes the tally of staff with Ravenclaw tendencies up to three then," mused Constance. "We're still under-represented. Typical."

"Three ex-Gryffindors – four if you count Dippet – but what about the Hufflepuffs? They've only got Bloom to look out for them," Richard asked.

"What _about_ the Hufflepuffs?" murmured Aurelius, the corner of his mouth quirking. The others grinned.

"They don't need representing," Constance scoffed. "They've got no House pride whatsoever. As competitive as turtles, the lot of them. But we've only got two ex-Slytherins amongst the staff to look out for us. There's a _deliberate_ pro-Gryffindor bias. It's discrimination!"

Aurelius was gazing at the new female teacher, chewing his lip. "My cousin never said anything about _her_. She's got to be the Divination teacher."

"Dippet'll tell us in a minute," Richard said. "He's nearly finished blathering on about Hogsmeade."

They looked at the Headmaster, who was drawing Rules Regarding Extra Curricular Outings and Activities to a much longed for conclusion.

"And finally, I must ask you all to welcome our new members of staff," Dippet said, beaming at the assembled students. The man – Cale – flinched almost imperceptibly at this, Constance noticed, but the woman remained impassive. "Professor Cale will be taking elective Chantwork for the NEWT students, and Professor Haven is of course, the new Divination teacher. I need hardly say that I hope they are made to feel most welcome at Hogwarts."

There was polite applause.

Aurelius turned back to his friends. "The Havens – they're a very old wizarding family. She _might_ be Slytherin-friendly."

"My uncle seems to like her," Constance pointed out, and in truth, the usually unsociable Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher was talking to Professor Haven with great enthusiasm. The youngest of three brothers, he had been involved in various enterprises only just verging on respectable, and had been forced into teaching by her grandfather, in order to avoid scandal. "And he's pretty hard to please."

"Brilliant," Richard said, satisfied. "That's our marks sorted for DADA, Potions and Divination then."

"What do you mean, Potions?" asked Aurelius. "My cousin's a Ravenclaw. He'll only put family first - which is right and proper and as it should be," he added, sniggering. "Not that my marks need boosting."

"God knows we could do with a proper Divination teacher," Constance said thoughtfully. "Lockhart was appalling."

Richard's eyes lit up. "Constance Malfoy…..I sense….much excitement in your tealeaves…a turbulent time is ahead of you…Venus…the planet of love …..danger and romance lurk in every corner…isn't Orion _sparkling_ tonight? Just like your eyes my dear…..love is just around the corner…I have _foreseen_ it!"

"Shut it Marlowe!" snapped Constance, instantly going red. "He was just an old fraud."

"A very good looking old fraud," Aurelius said casually. "Not my type, of course, but I hear the Malfoy family aren't picky. Disgrace to the wizarding community, if you ask me."

The two boys collapsed in laughter. Constance folded her arms and glared into her pumpkin juice, ignoring the treacherous twitching of her lips. 

"If you would kindly stop _chattering_," she said acidly, "I'm quite interested to see who's going to be Head Boy and Girl this year. Of course, if you're not _interested, _if you don't _care_ whether a _Slytherin_ has been picked or not…"

"Yes, _Minerva,_" muttered Richard, but subsided.

Armando Dippet had been talking about the duties and responsibilities of the Head students in such detail that even the most conscientious student would have been hard pressed to feign interest. Despite this, House Slytherin had a vested interest in his speech. Gryffindor and surprisingly, Hufflepuff had been hogging the damn positions. It had been eight years since one of their own had been nominated, a deliberate slight according to Constance. And now, according to the Serpent rumour mill, Felix DuPré was in the running, thanks to Professor de la Tour's constant plugging. 

"It gives me great pleasure to announce that Amber Vetinari is Head Girl," said Dippet, smiling in the general direction of the Ravenclaw table. There was enthusiastic applause around the Great Hall – Amber was well liked. 

"My money's on Verity Black," muttered Constance bitterly. "He's Godric's Golden Boy."

She wasn't alone in her feelings – across the Hall, the Gryffindors were already congratulating Black. A trifle premature, she thought, and scowled.

Dippet continued. "And last but not least, I give you Felix DuPré as Head Boy. My congratulations to both of you."

Looking across the Hall at the disgruntled face of Verity Black, Constance smirked. The Slytherin table erupted into applause. Felix DuPré was grinning openly, and even Professor de la Tour looked slightly less impassive than usual.

The noise lasted all night, despite the best efforts of the newly responsible Head Boy.

It was going to be Slytherin's year.

__


	2. Predestination

Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it's not mine. Do I have to say more?

The Serpentine Chain Part One

Chapter Two – Predestination

The new Divination teacher did a lot to compensate for the school's pro-Gryffindor policy, in Constance's opinion. Within the first five minutes of the lesson, Professor Elspeth Haven had docked ten points from Gryffindor House on behalf of certain students who'd found it extremely amusing to comment on the phonetic properties of the word Uranus.

"I would not have expected such behaviour from students your age," she'd said softly. "Perhaps you do not have the mental acuity necessary to study Divination – it requires concentration, not juvenile attempts at humour."

Stuart Coombes, the offending student had flushed, his face turning almost as red as his hair. He stared down at his hands. Constance smirked as she saw the grimaces on the faces of the Gryffindors.

"Perhaps," Professor Haven continued, her voice cold, "perhaps the removal of ten House points will help you focus? Do you think that would work, Stuart?"

Stuart mumbled something unintelligible. The teacher's eyes glinted.

"I don't think I quite caught that, Stuart."

"Yes Professor," he muttered. 

"I'm glad you understand. Now if we could proceed with the lesson without any further interruptions," she said, moving around the classroom to stand by her desk, "I would be most gratified."

"Better than Lockhart, eh Constance?" murmured Richard, pretending to polish his jade runestones.

"Ssh, you're missing it," urged Constance. Ignoring the grin on her friend's face, she tucked her short white blonde hair behind her ears and tried to look as efficient and receptive to learning as possible.

"Divination as I teach it is vastly different to the tea party tricks that you have no doubt been learning for the past few years," Professor Haven said. "And yet, it is not an exact science. The Sight – the true art of Seeing the future – is very rare, and almost impossible to control. It cannot be taught to those who do not have the skill for it. It requires the ability to delve into the subconscious areas of the mind in order to seek and analyze what dreams may come. Careful meditation is essential in enhancing the clarity of the dreams. At some point during the year, I will be testing you all for the Sight. Those of you – if any – who are found to possess it, will be taught how to deal with the ability. It is not an easy gift. Those without will continue with normal Divination lessons. The Sight is not necessary for palmistry, astrology, stone casting, tarot reading, or anything involving tea leaves."

A hand shot up. Miryum Chandler, a dark haired Gryffindor, looked desperate to start proving she knew more than simple tea party tricks.

"Please Professor, is the Sight necessary for scrying?" she asked earnestly.

"No. Wizarding ability is all that is needed. Naturally, a Muggle couldn't scry. Nor could they cast a true horoscope, much as they would like to pretend otherwise. Magical blood is essential."

Constance put her hand up, causing Richard to look at her in amusement. "Is the Sight necessary for visionweaving?" she asked. 

She got a few puzzled glances from a few students for this, although Miryum Chandler was looking appreciative. Professor Haven smiled approvingly.

"Visionweaving is worthy of study purely for its own sake," she said quietly. "Specialists in it were once highly sought after, highly paid – and very short lived. The Sight is a part of it, but Seers must also be trained in weaving techniques. Seeing whilst weaving causes the prophecy or omen to gain a tangible shape in the tapestry, and the works produced by visionweavers are masterpieces of art and Sight combined."

Constance was about to speak further, when she was interrupted.

"Are there any living visionweavers now?" asked a tall, black haired boy with vivid turquoise eyes. "Or were they all targeted during Grindelwald's rise to power?"

A shadow crossed Professor Haven's face, whilst several students flinched at the Slytherin's mention of Grindelwald. 

"No," the teacher replied, after a brief pause. "Visionweavers were few enough to begin with. The effort needed to sustain prolonged periods of trance burns up tremendous amounts of energy. It literally takes years off a weaver's life. Grindelwald was incredibly thorough in tracking weavers down, and those captured died when he forced them to spend unnatural periods of time in trance. If there are any left living, they are keeping very low profiles."

The boy subsided, curiosity apparently satisfied. Constance finished copying what Professor Haven had said, and looked up to see Richard's bewildered glance.

"What? Some of us actually bothered to read last year's set texts you know," she snapped, but quietly so the teacher wouldn't hear.

"I'm sure you did, Connie darling," drawled Richard. "You _were_ Heathcliffe Lockhart's model student after all. _So_ hardworking. _So_ dedicated. _So_ eager to read _Seeing with Seers_, or _Making rugs with Visionweavers_, or whatever it was."

"Actually it wasn't a Lockhart book," Constance sniffed, and turned back to Professor Haven who had begun to write on the blackboard.

"During the next few weeks, we will be covering the underlying theories behind Divination – beginning with Predestination," the teacher said. "Can we alter the future if we know what is coming? Will speaking about what we have foreseen have any effect upon the future?"

"Does that mean we can warn people, if we see bad luck for them?" asked Peter Odell, a small Gryffindor with an incredible amount of freckles.

Professor Haven smiled mirthlessly. "Would they be able to avoid their fate if they knew it?"

The boy who'd asked about visionweavers was chewing his quill and gazing thoughtfully at Professor Haven, a slight crease on his forehead.

"Is it true," he said, not putting his hand up, "that we have no choices over our own actions at all? That our fates are mapped out for us?"

"Oh God, Riddle's at it as well. He's caught philosophy," moaned Richard under his breath. "I hate philosophy."

Constance shot him a look, half amused, half annoyed. "Then why did you take Divination," she asked. "Thought it'd be an easy option?"

Richard didn't answer, but glared at his innocent runestones.

Professor Haven gazed back at Riddle coolly.

"That is one argument," she said. "Some people believe that we have no control over our lives, that every choice we make has already been decided for us. For good or evil." She paused, and looked around the class. "In which case, of course, there is nothing that we can do to change what fate has mapped out for us."

"Do you believe that?" asked the boy, twirling his quill absentmindedly between long white fingers.

Professor Haven stared at him for a moment. "I believe in free will. We are the masters of our fate." Then she smiled coldly. "And what will be shall be," she added.

Tom Riddle lowered his head slightly. The rest of the class looked puzzled. 

Constance frowned, staring at the back of Tom's head. Had she missed something? We are the masters of our fate, we decide for ourselves. But everything is preordained. Professor Haven had contradicted herself. How could you believe two completely opposite things? It didn't make sense. 

Preoccupied with the paradox, she hardly listened as the teacher set the week's homework. Her hand copied it down automatically. As the class filed out of the room, chattering eagerly about the new Quidditch season, she found herself next to Tom Riddle. He seemed somewhat distracted as well, smiling slightly to himself, as if at a joke no-one else could understand. It struck her that his question had, in fact, been rather personal.


	3. The Dormius Chant

Disclaimer: The Chalcedean language belongs to Robin Hobb, and if you can tell me what it means, take ten points for Slytherin. Whatever House you're in.

The Serpentine Chain Part One

Chapter Three - The Dormius Chant

Looking at the stricken, white faces of the new students, Christopher Cale had been abruptly reminded of his own Sorting. Sitting on the stool in front of the entire school, the too-large Hat covering half of his face, he'd been utterly, completely terrified. He'd practically fallen off the stool when the Hat spoke to him.

__

"So, Christopher Cale," the Hat had mused. "_What have we got here?"_

The young Cale had clutched the sides of the stool with both hands, knuckles turning white. 

__

"The usual stuff," said the Hat absently. "_Intelligence. Honesty. Mental agility. Keen desire for knowledge. Blah blah blah. Do you read a lot? Thought so. Well, definitely not Hufflepuff, you'd get frustrated there. And you haven't the slightest smidgen of ambition. So Slytherin's out. Gryffindor's a possibility, but I think you'd be better off in…RAVENCLAW!"_

A great cheer from the Ravenclaw tables had greeted him as he'd stepped off the stool and gone to join his House. And he'd been happy there for his seven years at Hogwarts. And now, five years after graduation, he was back. As a teacher.

He suddenly realized that he was, in fact, utterly terrified again.

He was only five years older than the students he'd be teaching NEWT level Chantwork. He was barely out of education himself. It had seemed like such a good idea when he'd accepted Dippet's offer. The next logical step for a Ravenclaw alumnus. Would he be up to the job, he wondered anxiously. Would he really be able to stand in the front of the classroom, and dish out house points and give homework and detentions like a proper teacher? 

__

Professor Cale. It sounded highly implausible. There was no way he'd pull it off. The students would know at once that he didn't have a clue what he was doing. Slytherins could smell weakness a mile off. He was too young, too inexperienced –

"This gets longer every year, I swear," muttered his neighbour. Cale turned his head to look at him, and felt like a complete idiot. He'd forgotten about Quintus. A fellow Ravenclaw and one of his old school friends, Quintus had bagged one of the most demanding teaching vacancies – Potions – at Hogwarts only the year after he'd graduated. He'd become the youngest Potions master in about a century. And here was Cale, worrying the students wouldn't take him seriously enough in his elective class.

"I feel like an imposter," Cale whispered back. "Was it like this for you?"

Quintus smirked. "I just scare the living daylights out of them. Taking House points and giving innovative yet highly unpleasant detentions are very satisfying. You gain a lot of credibility with scowls, sneers and sarcasm, but if all else fails, just threaten them with a few Bunion Inducing Potions." 

"Oh, wonderful. There'll be plenty of opportunities for that in Chantwork," Cale replied sarcastically.

Quintus laughed quietly. "Don't listen to me. I'm probably the closest thing the students get to a pushover at the minute. I'm just grateful that the cauldron mortality rate is slowly beginning to fall."

"What was all that about unpleasant detentions?" Cale asked.

"Nothing to do with me," Quintus replied. "I tried to think of something horrible for the Lestrange twins to do after they spiked the Gryffindor Quidditch team's pumpkin juice – but in the end I just gave up and sent them to Nadine. She's good at painful punishments. She had them scouring the Hufflepuff toilets without magic." 

Cale had shuddered. The Hufflepuff toilets were legendary. 

*

After a few lessons, his nerves subsided. Standing in front of his small group of students, Cale allowed himself a small, mental pat on the back. He was managing. They were _learning._

"The Dormius Chant," he began, "was created by three wizards back in the 14th century in order to induce sleep. It can be used for many purposes - to help victims of insomnia or to speed up the healing process in severely wounded patients for example. The strength of the chant can also be varied, depending upon the texture and volume of the chant. The more voices involved, and the louder the chant, the stronger and more wide ranging its effect, and vice versa."

He gestured towards the blackboard with his wand, and almost immediately, words began to form.

"Can anybody tell me which Ancient language the Dormius chant was written in?"

He was gratified to see several hands up in the air. "Yes, Susanna?" he asked the usually retiring Ravenclaw.

"Chalcedean, sir."

"Correct," Cale replied. "Five points to Ravenclaw. Now, the actual chant is very simple. It consists of the sentence you see on the board. But bear in mind, the pronunciation has to be perfect – Laah Nee Raah Kee Jay Loy En – and any deviation will lessen the overall effect. If you could repeat it after me, now, we'll be able to move onto the notes."

*

That blasted chanting was loud enough to penetrate even the thickest walls, Quintus noted dully. And the thickest skulls too, he thought, watching as a particularly inept student sighed deeply and fell forwards. The Hufflepuff was snoring before he even hit the table. As the Potions master looked around his classroom (through increasingly leaden eyelids) he saw that most of his students had succumbed to the pervasive chanting.

Thankfully it had only been a theory lesson, a distant part of his mind pointed out. This increasingly small part of his mind was beginning to get angry. It wasn't that the chanting was bad, of course. Far from it. He knew Cale was good at his job – he could coax a tune from the most creaky-voiced adolescent. The voices that drifted through the corridors of the castle were perfectly harmonized. It would have been quite pleasant to listen to, had Cale been conducting Melisandre Malfoy's "Veela Chorus", and not the bloody Dormius Chant.

The point, Quintus decided, was that it was not only downright embarrassing, being lulled to sleep in the midst of teaching, it was downright dangerous. What if his students had been brewing potions, and wound up injured thanks to Cale's lack of consideration? It wouldn't matter to students in other classes. You couldn't hurt yourself by falling asleep on a wand. Falling off a broom, yes, but the flying lessons were held too far away for the chant to take effect. It was just very very lucky Quintus had had to scrap his plans for this week - abysmal test results from the Hufflepuffs had seen to that. Snoring students and freshly brewed cauldrons of the Corpus Diminutus potion would have been disastrous.

As Quintus' eyelids began to drop, he made a mental note to drop something particularly unpleasant in Cale's pumpkin juice. After he'd had a sleep of course. 

*

__

La-nee-ra-ke-je-loi-en…

The last note rang out clearly and faded away as a smiling Christopher Cale gestured with his wand, dissolving the blue shield around him. The delight in the faces of his twenty students assured him that they had finally begun to grasp the concepts of chanting. It wasn't simply making the right noises – anyone with vocal chords could do that. It was in visualizing the energy projection behind the notes that the real power lay. Building mental pictures and filling them in with the chant.

"Excellent! That was much better than the last time," he said approvingly. "Your homework will be fairly straightforward today – a scroll and a half on the use of the pentatonic scale within the Dormius Chant – yes, Estelle?"

A plump curly haired girl with wide blue eyes asked eagerly "Will we be studying the use of language within chants like the Dormius this term, sir?"

Professor Cale smiled inwardly at the Ravenclaw's enthusiasm, even as half his class groaned. "Linguistics within Chantwork is actually next on the syllabus," he replied, "after we've covered the harmonic and melodic aspects of course."

Estelle's hand shot up again. "Will our class notes on the pentatonic scale be enough, or do we need to do further research? Because I can't find a copy of "Scales for Spells" in the library, and I wondered if I'd have to order it direct…"

"No, you won't need that. Your class notes will be enough for this area of work, although when we reach the more complex topics you'll have to undertake more research. I have a wider reading list that I'll be giving out at the end of the week, but for now you just need to concentrate on the essay."

As his students drifted out of the room in the relaxed state induced by chantwork, Professor Christopher Cale sank back into his chair. Disregarding the piles of papers on his desk, he closed his eyes and mumbled _Cantus Iteratus_ under his breath. Circe Callister's Fourth Symphony began to play, filling the empty classroom with the blissful sound of four hundred veela and the Durmstrang Philharmonic Orchestra…

"FINITE INCANTATUM!"

He jolted out of a peaceful semi-slumber to see an irate looking Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher stood before him. The impulse to close his eyes again was very strong. 

"Professor Malfoy?" he began. "Can I help?"

The DADA teacher glared at him. "I hear you've been teaching the Dormius Chant, Cale."

"Oh, yes! I was a bit concerned at first, you know, as to whether the students would be able to master it, but I think they're coming along splendidly," he babbled. Damn. Malfoys _always_ made him nervous. It wasn't fair.

Malfoy's glare, if possible, became even more intense.

Cale resisted the urge to squirm. "Is there a problem, Professor?" he asked.

"Obviously not with your lessons, Cale," Professor Malfoy snapped. "Are you aware that you disrupted every other lesson in the castle?"

Cale's heart sank. He'd shielded himself from the chant. But he'd completely forgotten about the rest of Hogwarts. "Oh dear," he said quietly.

"Are you aware that the Potions classroom is directly below this one?" continued Professor Malfoy, inexorably. "And that there are now twenty five students and one professor in the hospital wing?"

"They – they weren't hurt, were they?" Cale asked anxiously. Images of scalded, severely wounded students flashed before his eyes.

Malfoy scowled. "Fortunately, there were no practical potions lessons today," he said. "However, the potions master and his students were the most affected by your – little singsong." He practically spat the last words at Cale. 

"It wasn't a very _strong_ Dormius," Cale offered weakly. "They're just beginners. The effects should have worn off by tomorrow."

Malfoy sneered. "My third years were dealing with a Boggart today. At least, they were until you decided to soothe their savage breasts with song. Pity your little chant doesn't work on non-humans, isn't it? It's fortunate I'm better at my job than you seem to be at yours, otherwise there'd be fifty students in the hospital wing by now."

"I'm sorry. I just completely forgot," Cale said glumly. "How did you avoid the chant?"

"I teach _Defence Against the Dark Arks_, you _idiot_! Counteracting chants is a vital part of my job description." He paused, then said angrily "You might think about avoiding Quintus for a while. In fact, if I were you, I'd just keep out of _everyone's_ way for an _infinite_ length of time and save us all the bother of having to sort out your little mistakes!" 

Before Christopher could respond, Malfoy was gone. The door slammed shut behind him.


	4. Loyalties

The Serpentine Chain Part One

Chapter Four: Loyalties

The Potions classroom looked almost inviting. A warm glow filled the room, as the fire Aurelius had lit crackled peacefully in the hearth. Without his cousin's Concealing Charms, he could see that the walls of the dungeon were decorated – rich blue tapestries adorned the cold stone. The predominant eagle motif indicated that Quintus Snape had lost none of his House pride. Although Aurelius as a rule favoured the cold green and silver of his own House, he had to admit that his cousin had certainly made his classroom attractive. Even if none of the students were able to see it.

He'd certainly spared no expense, Aurelius thought, looking at the large oil painting that covered most of one wall. The artist, Konstantin Kirilov, was very well known, and very expensive. A teacher's salary would not stretch that far – but the Snape family themselves were far from poor. Expensive, but worth it, decided Aurelius. Kirilov was a master, the great ship depicted in the painting truly beautiful. The sails billowed out in a fresh, unseen wind, and the ship's figurehead flung out his arms in delight at his own motion, as Aurelius watched, fascinated. High up in the crow's nest, a small figure gazed out across the continuous motion of the sea, whilst below him his shipmates scuttled across the deck to carry out a shouted command. 

"Paragon," murmured a voice behind him, waking him from his reverie.

Aurelius turned to face his cousin, who was standing by the classroom door. Twenty-six hours induced sleep had not done him any harm - clad in his usual black teaching robes, Quintus Snape looked refreshed and, unsurprisingly, well rested. The family resemblance between the two was marked, only twenty-three, Quintus looked more like a brother to the seventeen year old Aurelius. Both possessed the incredibly fine dark hair that so quickly turned dull and lank, both possessed black eyes that could be both inscrutable and highly expressive. Aurelius' eyes were expressionless as he looked at his cousin.

"Paragon?" he repeated, curious in spite of himself.

"The name of the ship," answered Quintus. "Beautiful, isn't he?"

Aurelius did not answer that, but moved over to his cousin's desk. A brand new black cauldron was in place beside it, and on the desk lay various scalpels, jars, and bowls. The list he'd received had been very explicit in its instructions, leaving him no margin for error. He had measured the amounts of armadillo bile, and the other listed ingredients perfectly. "I wasn't sure you'd be well enough, but I set up the equipment as you asked. Is that alright?" he asked.

Quintus knew better than anyone the extent of Aurelius' skill in potions, yet he still scanned the paraphernalia on his desk out of habit. Of course, everything was in order. "Thank you," he said. "We will be needing various ingredients from my private stores, however. If you can make a start with the spiders' legs, I shall fetch the rest."

Aurelius nodded, and sitting down at the desk, he began to sort through the jar of dried, dead spiders. They were South American in origin, as the neat handwriting on the label indicated. Without flinching, he removed the spiders' legs carefully with a small, sharp scalpel, and placed them in a neat line upon the surface of the desk. 

*

He'd been given the list a week earlier. Quintus had asked him to stay back after Potions, and had been puzzled as to the reason. He had missed no assignments, and his behaviour in front of his cousin was always exemplary. It was weird enough being related to a member of staff as it was, without being chastised by him. Especially when his cousin was so young. But he'd told his friends not to wait for him, and waited by Professor Snape's desk, watching as his classmates drifted off to their next lesson. If he was in trouble, he didn't want anyone else to know about it.

"You wanted me, Professor?" he asked impassively.

Quintus had smiled, putting him at his ease. "Don't worry, you aren't in trouble," he'd said. "The opposite, in fact."

Aurelius relaxed somewhat. "You need me for something?" he'd hazarded. He knew full well how good he was at Potions. The Snape expertise in that area went back for centuries. Perhaps his cousin needed him to tutor some hapless first years.

"I need you to help me make forty bottle of the Impervio potion," his cousin said bluntly.

The Slytherin was somewhat surprised, to say the least. The Impervio was a very complex potion, and a very rare one. It was not mentioned in Most Potente Potions, he knew, and the recipe was only to be found in two or three books. He was quite certain the Hogwarts library didn't stock them. He'd checked. 

"Why?" Aurelius asked, already guessing the answer. Quintus was often called upon to prepare difficult potions for the Ministry. The rise of Grindelwald had seen an increase in the requests for his aid. The Impervio potion would be a valuable resource for Ministry agents abroad – those who drank it were shielded against the effects of most other potions, and various curses and hexes. Painful, disabling jinxes flung at someone under the protection of the Impervio would rebound. It even offered some protection against the Imperius curse. Not much, but enough to attract attention, or summon help.

Quintus' answer proved him right. "The Ministry made the order. I have the Headmaster's permission to proceed, of course, but the potion is a particularly involved one and I would prefer to brew it with a _discreet_ assistant. That's where you come in. If you're willing..?"

Of course he had been willing. The opportunity to prove his skills in front of his cousin was too good to be missed. He would be discreet. That was implicitly understood. And Quintus no doubt had known that, having already prepared a list of instructions for him. They had arranged a convenient time, a Thursday evening a week hence. Then he'd left, late for Ancient Runes.

*

The remains of sixteen spiders' legs lay before him, neatly sliced into exact thirds. Sixteen fluid ounces of armadillo bile were in the glass bowl next to a precisely peeled Shrivelfig. Aurelius added the spiders' legs to the bowl of armadillo bile, and began to stir anti clockwise, occasionally lifting his mixer to check the viscosity of the texture. The legs had to be completely absorbed into the mixture, so 

that it was a smooth paste. 

While he did so, he took the opportunity to observe his cousin. Quintus was busy adding fairy wings to the iridescent green mixture – boomslang skin, eight werewolf hairs, and sixteen trolls' fingernails – in the cauldron. He had a preoccupied, intensely absorbed air that was familiar to Aurelius, it was the same feeling he sensed in himself during his long study sessions in the library or in the private laboratory his father had constructed at home. The Ollivanders made wands, the Snapes brewed potions. They were brilliant at it, and they loved it. It was as simple as that.

"That stuff in the bowl has to be added to the cauldron as soon as this begins to boil," Quintus said, in slightly unscientific terms. "Is it smooth enough?"

Aurelius lifted his mixer, and watched the liquid flow instantly back into the bowl, leaving no traces on the implement. "It's ready now," he said.

"Good," replied his cousin. "Once we've added the armadillo and spiders, the potion –"

"Will be left to brew for twenty four hours," Aurelius finished for him. "I studied very carefully whilst you were in the hospital wing."

Quintus nodded, approvingly, then said swiftly, "Empty your bowl into here, now." 

The contents of the cauldron were beginning to bubble. Aurelius poured the liquid in the glass bowl gradually in, seeing the mixture instantly begin to shimmer. Quintus stirred the cauldron clockwise, watching as the potion began to turn a cold midnight blue. It thickened almost immediately.

"This will dissolve," Quintus said as he picked up Aurelius' Shrivelfig peel. He began to sprinkle it into the cauldron, stirring all the while. As he did so, his cousin wiped the desk clean, and removed the traces of armadillo bile from the glass bowl. 

"You've set a timer to go off in twenty four hours?" he asked Quintus. He knew it was unnecessary – student teaching the master, indeed.

Professor Snape nodded. "The rest of the ingredients need to be added at exactly the right time, otherwise this mixture will not have the correct potency. I'll lock the cauldron in my store-room – the walls are dense, and shielded so that the mixture won't be affected by any of the magic in the atmosphere." It was essential that the Impervio potion was not exposed to any magical spells during its creation – direct exposure would mutate the ingredients and render the potion useless, if not dangerous. Once it was fully brewed, of course, such precautions were unnecessary. 

They carried the cauldron into the chamber which adjoined the classroom. Quintus had already prepared a space for it, having moved a box-full of bottles containing unpleasant looking substances to the other side of the room. A small silver hourglass stood upon a shelf near the cauldron. Aurelius watched as his cousin turned it over. 

"There," Quintus said, satisfied. "I can check on its progress tomorrow."

The two Snapes went back out into the classroom in companionable silence. 

"Will you need me to help with the second stage of the potion?" Aurelius asked hopefully.

Quintus smiled. There was definitely a family resemblance. "Come and see me at lunchtime – we can plait the Veela hairs and prepare the adder's tongue."

"Alright," Aurelius started to say, when he was interrupted by a very loud hissing sound. Both he and his cousin turned to the fire, where the flames had turned green. The head and shoulders of Professor Octavius Malfoy appeared in the fire. Shrouded by flames, his pale face looked unearthly, almost devilish. He seemed distinctly disgruntled at the sight of Aurelius.

"Hello Octavius," Quintus greeted him mildly. 

"I just tried your room," Professor Malfoy said, ignoring Quintus' greeting. "You weren't there." His tone was accusing, and he did not take his eyes off Aurelius.

"My cousin and I were just discussing certain advanced theoretical concepts behind Transfiguration potions," Quintus Snape said blandly. Aurelius was silent, and did not look at his cousin, but met Malfoy's stare without blinking. "Sadly, the work we cover in class is not overly taxing for him."

Octavius Malfoy managed to look remarkably uninterested in Aurelius Snape's grasp of potions. "The Headmaster has just called a staff meeting," he said. "It's a matter of some importance. He asked me to let you know."

"Thank you Octavius, I'll be there shortly. The staffroom, I presume?"

Malfoy nodded curtly. "Don't be late," he warned, before his head disappeared and the flames changed colour.

"Well, Aurelius," Professor Snape said after a moment's silence. "I'm grateful for the help you've given me tonight, and I hope to see you at lunchtime tomorrow."

Aurelius smiled, his black eyes sparkling. "Try keeping me away."

Quintus smiled as well, at the enthusiasm in his young cousin's voice. There seemed to be hardly any difference between the two cousins for a moment. Then he said, in a serious voice,

"Aurelius, you know I trust you. We're family. Different Houses, but the same blood flows through our veins, and we both know blood will tell."

He paused, waiting for a response. When Aurelius nodded, he went on. "You know the need for discretion in this situation, and you heard me lie to Professor Malfoy just now. I don't expect you to lie to your friends, but perhaps –"

"– altering the truth wouldn't be such a bad thing?" Aurelius finished for him. "I'm not stupid, Quintus. I know this needs to be kept secret. And," he added, smirking, "you've forgotten I'm a Slytherin. Concealment is my forte."

Quintus Snape eyed the House badge on his cousin's robes, mouth twitching. "I'm supposed to be teaching my students morals…or something of that ilk... _Not_ corrupting their innocent minds."

Aurelius laughed. "You're a Snape, but also a Ravenclaw. If there's any corruption going on, I'll see to it. Just remember what the Gryffindors like to say about us."

The older man remembered. "You can't corrupt a Slytherin…"

"…because he's already corrupt to the core," Aurelius finished.

Quintus looked at him. "I'll leave it to you to keep this quiet then?"

Nodding, Aurelius turned to go. As he opened the classroom door, he heard his cousin murmur "And Aurelius?"

He glanced back to see Quintus Snape standing beside his blue Ravenclaw banner.

"Yes Professor?"

"Fifteen points to Slytherin."

*

He was not late for Dippet's meeting after all, although the majority of the Hogwarts faculty was already seated around an ornately carved table. Quintus Snape sat down next to Lydia Grey, the Head of Ravenclaw. Various people greeted him, and he nodded back politely. He noted with amusement that Christopher Cale was regarding him with a great deal of trepidation. _And well he might, _he thought to himself. He allowed himself to glance briefly at Cale's teacup, then back at his friend's face before raising an eyebrow slightly. He smiled inwardly at the quickly concealed panic on Cale's face. Of course, he had done nothing to the cup. He didn't need to. The unsmiling Octavius Malfoy sitting opposite him. With the hair that was so blonde it was practically pure white swept back from his forehead in a widow's peak, Malfoy looked almost regal. He'd heard Octavius hadn't been happy with Christopher after the unexpected success of his lesson. Poor Christopher, he thought.

Armando Dippet stood up. "Now that we are all here –"

Nadine de la Tour, head of Slytherin, swept in. She was a tall, elegant woman in green velvet robes. Without a word, she sat down next to Octavius Malfoy.

"Nice of you to join us," muttered Matthew Seraphim, the head of Gryffindor. Professor de la Tour merely smiled. It was not a pleasant smile.

Dippet cleared his throat, and continued as if nothing had happened. "– now that we are all here, I have some important news to impart to you. As you are no doubt aware, the situation in Europe is desperate, for both magical and Muggle communities. Grindelwald has formed a power base in Germany, and it is likely that he has forged an alliance with the German leader. As Hitler grows stronger and advances, so it is probable that Grindelwald will soon unleash a direct attack on countries that have, until now, resisted his insidious attempts at control. The magical community in Britain has been relatively unscathed until now, although the same cannot be said for the Muggles, but this is unlikely to remain the case."

Amelia Bloom, a small curvy woman with long brown hair leaned forwards. "Is it true that Grindelwald's followers are hiring themselves out to certain Muggle leaders? As mercenaries, or magical assassins?"

Several members of staff murmured in surprise and horror at this. Quintus himself had heard these rumours several months ago, picking up supplies in Knockturn Alley. Octavius Malfoy did not look surprised, although his eyes glinted sourly.

Dippet sighed. "Sadly, you are correct Amelia. These wizards have the deaths of several thousand Muggles on their consciences – if indeed they possess them. Yet the matter I have called you here to discuss concerns events closer to home. Today, I received an owl from the Ministry, bearing news which will affect us all. It appears that the French school Beauxbatons is no longer secure – several members of staff have been found to have direct links with Grindelwald's army. Certain Muggle-born students are at risk from both Grindelwald and Hitler. Many parents have withdrawn their children, and are applying for transfers to Durmstrang and the Zurich Academy."

He paused. Albus Dumbledore, the Transfiguration professor and Deputy Head, took up where he left off. "Ten Beauxbatons students have applied to our Ministry for immediate transfer here. Some fled with their families, others have been sent alone."

The staffroom was silent as the teachers contemplated this.

"How will we accommodate them?" asked the head of Slytherin. "Will they be Sorted into our system, or will they remain Beauxbatons students – in Hogwarts, but not of it?"

Lydia Grey was biting her thumbnail. "It might be kinder to allow them to stay together," she said quietly. "Separating them into Houses could cause additional distress."

Nadine de la Tour's voice was icy cool. "Treating them as we would normal transfer students might provide security in itself. Our students are more likely to accept them if they are Sorted into Houses, instead of remaining separate. They will find it easier to adapt with the help of their housemates."

The Divination teacher's voice cut through the noise. "Are we voting on this matter?"

Dippet gazed at her. "I think it would be for the best," he replied, unsmiling.

She leaned back in her chair, and glanced around the table. "_I_ am ready," she said. 

"Ditto," murmured Professor Seraphim.

Murmurs of assent came from around the table. Only Octavius Malfoy was silent.

"Octavius?" asked Dumbledore politely.

There was the minutest of pauses, then Malfoy replied. "I doubt that their loyalties would lie with their Houses, or with Hogwarts. Sorted or no."

"This isn't about the _House Cup_, Malfoy!" Matthew Seraphim exclaimed in disgust. "These children are refugees. There's a war on – although I'm quite sure _you've_ noticed." He emphasized the latter part of his sentence distinctly.

Malfoy's eyes glinted in cold fury, but he did not reply.

"Are you ready to vote, Octavius?" Dippet asked.

"Yes, yes, let's get on with it," muttered the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher.

Dippet waved his wand. A large bowl appeared in the centre of the table. In front of each teacher, two little tokens appeared. One had a Y engraved on it, the other an N.

"The Y token should be used if you are in favour of Sorting the new students," Armando Dippet said. "The N token if you are against it. I will not vote, as I will remain impartial. Place your token in the bowl, face down, so no-one can see it"

Quintus mentally rolled his eyes – they weren't students. He looked down at his tokens, and thought about what the Sorting Hat had said to him. Then he placed the Y token in the bowl. 

The silence was broken only by the clinks of the tokens as they connected with the china of the bowl. When the last teacher, Lydia Grey, had voted, Dippet tipped the contents of the bowl onto the table, and turned the tokens face up. The results were clear.

"The Sorting Hat it is, then," announced the Headmaster. 


	5. A Safe Haven

The Serpentine Chain Part One

Chapter Five – A Safe Haven

The Slytherin common room was blessedly quiet. Quidditch practice, Constance thought, as she glowered over her Chantwork books. Her fellow Slytherins were either whizzing about on brooms, or making sure that there were no stray Gryffindors around to see things they shouldn't. She sniggered to herself – Quidditch espionage, _honestly._ But it was very useful having the common room to herself for once. She could practice pentatonic scales to her heart's content, without Richard or Aurelius laughing at her voice. I'm not _that_ bad, she muttered, frowning. 

__

Examine the use of the pentatonic scale within healing chants, and say why it is so effective, she read, and sighed. There was no doubt about it – Professor Cale was a sadist. Her heart sank as she looked at her class notes. An elaborate doodle of a snake covered almost an entire page. It had green and silver scales, and a forked tongue. Salazar Slytherin would have been proud.

"Healing chants … Medicus, Tranquillus, Dormius …" she murmured, ticking them off on her fingers. She tried and failed to repress the grin that burst into existence at the memory of Professor Cale's overly successful lesson. Good job she'd been in Care of Magical Creatures at the time, well away from Hogwarts and the insidious chanting of the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. As Aurelius said, it was okay to laugh because it hadn't happened to them. Had _she_ been lulled asleep, she thought, she'd have been as annoyed as her uncle. Dignity must be maintained at all times, he'd said, imagine falling asleep in front of Verity Black, or Andrew Potter. Or any of the Gryffindors for that matter. Slytherins don't sleep. Unless it's on Slytherin terms, she told herself, as she coloured in the eyes of the coiling snake.

Aurelius' cousin hadn't been much happier than her uncle - yet all Quintus Snape had done was to smile faintly at his friend in a vaguely smug way whenever he'd seen him, and Cale had been eyeing his pumpkin juice suspiciously ever since. It had been a source of amusement for the Slytherins In The Know. Poor Cale, she thought, then shrugged. At least she and Aurelius had had the rest of the day off. 

Whilst she was thus occupied, the door slid open. Tom Riddle walked in, carrying a ridiculous amount of books. Only a brief flicker of his eyes revealed his surprise at seeing her there by the fire.

"I know it's heretical of me – but I really can't be bothered to watch the Quidditch practice today," she said in response to the unspoken question in his face.

"Quidditch," he said dismissively. "There are more important things to do."

"Do you need a hand with those books?" Constance asked. "You seem to have brought the library with you."

He hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. "If you want. Thanks."

She hurried over and grabbed two of the oversized books that were teetering precariously on top of many more. "Where do you want me to put them?" she asked, as she looked at the titles. 

__

Double Predestination: A Wizarding Perspective – Erasmus Haven

Beyond Good and Evil – Friedrich Nietzsche

She was impressed despite herself. "I didn't realise we kept Muggle books in the library."

The tall student dumped the rest of his books onto the desk with a determined thud. "They aren't Muggle books," he said scornfully. "Muggle books would not have "A Wizarding Perspective" written on them. Nor was Erasmus Haven a Muggle."

Constance felt rather stupid. "I thought Nietszche was – "

"He was a _halfblood_," Tom said coldly. "His mother was a witch. His father was a German pastor. As far as I'm aware."

"Erasmus Haven – he must be related to Professor Haven?" Constance said, changing the subject. 

"I would have thought you would have known that," murmured Tom. "Wizarding genealogy is your family's strong point, surely."

Constance shrugged. "I _could_ check _Wizarding Families In England And Europe _- it has the family trees of all purebloods in it. It stretches back centuries."

Tom was silent.

"These books are for Divination, aren't they?" Constance asked, not really needing an answer. "You're thorough."

"I like to be prepared," Tom replied, staring down at her. She felt slightly uncomfortable, and put down the books she was holding.

"Well – I'd better finish my essay," she said, looking at the chaotic mess of notes she had to sift through. His gaze followed hers, and rested on her pitifully blank scroll. 

"Healing chants?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Observant, aren't you," Constance quipped. "And before you start, I've already heard all the jokes I care to about my singing, thank you very much."

The tall prefect's eyes were roaming over her notes, finally coming to rest on the ornate snake. "Chantwork keeps you busy, I take it?"

"Yes, well," she said defensively. "We can't be perfect students all the time." She looked at Riddle's books. "We haven't even started double predestination yet – don't you ever get enough work to keep you occupied?"

Tom Riddle looked vaguely pleased with himself. "Divination is one of my best subjects," he said simply. "So I put extra effort in."

"All subjects are your best subjects," Constance murmured. She wasn't exaggerating. Although Aurelius always came first in Potions, and Richard in Arithmancy, Tom Riddle had consistently outdone almost everyone in almost everything since their first year at Hogwarts. He'd practically moved into the library during the few months before their OWL exams, and had come away with brilliant marks. As usual.

"I wasn't aware that anyone other than myself had bothered to read up on the references regarding visionweavers in last year's texts," he said, looking at her approvingly.

"Well – it's interesting," replied Constance. "Grindelwald's attacks on them weren't that long ago. In wizarding terms, twenty years isn't that long at all – yet nobody nowadays seems to know anything about them. And yet, when you read about them, you can see how valuable their power was. No wonder Grindelwald was desperate to get his hands on them."

Tom's expression was unreadable. "So that's why you're interested?" he asked.

"Not just that," she said. "One of my ancestors from way back was supposedly a visionweaver, although that could just be family rumour. She's been dead for at least two centuries, and her branch of the family died with her. I suppose we lost the vision blood traits with her, too," she ended ruefully. "Pity."

"You're interested in your own family history then," Riddle said softly. "Of course you are."

"You seem much more interested in Divination this year," Constance said bluntly, not bothering to hide her curiosity. "Last year you never seemed to pay any attention at all – even if your marks never showed it," she added, slightly envious. "Is the new teacher inspiring?"

Tom's lip curled. "Compared to Lockhart," he said, "the Fat Friar's bloody inspiring. The new teacher is a _Haven_ – and I really shouldn't have to be telling a Malfoy this."

Constance sighed, irritably. "I know they're an old wizarding family, I know she's an ex-Slytherin, I know she's a much better teacher than Lockhart could ever hope to be –"

Tom interrupted her. "She _is _related to Erasmus Haven, obviously," he said, as though he were explaining it to a child. "You _do_ know who he is?"

Constance was at a loss. Her copy of _Wizarding Families in England and Europe _had lain under her bed, unopened since her first year at Hogwarts. Not that she wasn't interested in preserving the purity of the bloodline, or anything….it was just, well, bloody boring reading, basically. Her brother was the one who'd memorized significant chunks of it. As long as she knew who the "right" families were, and who her fellow Slytherins were, she didn't need it. Until now, unfortunately. 

Tom shook his head slowly, enjoying her discomfort. "Honestly," he said softly, "some people have no standards at all…no proper wizarding pride…"

"It has merely slipped my mind," Constance said, in as dignified a manner as possible.

Tom Riddle smirked. "Erasmus Haven was the greatest Seer of the last century," he informed her. "In fact, the whole Haven family had the Sight, to some degree. They were a very powerful family in their time, but for some reason they have decreased in number recently. Grindelwald killed a couple, I think. Our Divination teacher is one of the last Havens around. We're lucky to have her."

"How do you know all that?" demanded Constance. "I didn't think you were interested in genealogy, being, you know…" she trailed off, slightly embarrassed.

Riddle's eyes flickered downwards. "I may not be pureblooded," he said quietly, "but the Zalaras blood I have from my mother outweighs that from my Muggle father. Your brother assured me it was so."

Constance nodded. The seventh year student Marcus Malfoy would not have so much as given Riddle the time had his blood not been up to scratch. He never spoke to the Muggle-born students, even to insult them, and only deigned to speak to a few fortunate halfbloods. Although he'd never paid much attention to Tom Riddle in the year below, he'd presumably decided that Riddle was one halfblood worth bothering with. Since he had won a special services award, Slytherin House a hundred points, and had rid the school of an annoying, homicidal student who'd blatantly had giant blood in him, Tom Riddle had the Malfoy stamp of approval.

"He was right," she offered, slightly uncomfortable at her tactlessness. She wasn't particularly good at apologies. She'd never had much practice, and didn't want to start now.

Riddle shrugged, suddenly indifferent. "Family _is_ important," he said. "To answer your question, however, I was interested in Professor Haven's background, and naturally I asked the House expert."

"My brother," Constance stated. "I should've guessed."

Riddle smiled serenely. "Marcus is, as ever, a fountain of knowledge."

He seemed to be about to say more when the common room door slid open and half a dozen students entered. They seemed to be very excited about something, and were talking loudly.

Paul Tudor, one of the Slytherin Chasers, said "They're here already, I heard," which earned him a pitying glance from the Keeper.

"Don't be ridiculous," Simon Harper replied. "They can't be here now, we'd have seen them arrive. They've got that bloody carriage thing, we'd have spotted it a mile off."

Teresa Symmonds, a pretty auburn haired girl spoke up quietly. "They wouldn't be using the carriage, though," she pointed out. "There's only ten of them coming. And they wouldn't want to be noticed, from what I've heard."

Tom Riddle glanced at Constance. "The Beauxbatons students, I presume," he murmured. 

She nodded. Felix DuPré had informed all the Slytherins yesterday evening of the imminent arrival of ten French students. Constance hadn't been too excited about it – she expected that they'd all end up in Ravenclaw. Pity it wasn't Durmstrang being threatened, she thought callously. They got taught all sorts there, imagine how much you could pick up from them. 

"How are they coming, then?" asked Honoria Corelli, a proud, haughty-looking seventh year.

"Portkey, probably," Tom Riddle said, turning to his books. "They'll have been at the Ministry, won't they, before coming here. They'll get sorted out there."

"What about the Hogwarts Express?" Paul queried. 

"For _ten people_?" Honoria answered scathingly. 

"Well, it's possible!" he snapped.

Honoria glared. "Many things are _possible,_" she began, and was immediately interrupted by the Lestrange twins, who had just entered the room. The Beaters were almost identical, with shining dark hair, dark eyes, olive complexions, and a ruthless streak apparent in any Quidditch match.

"We got _four_ of them!" Ariel Lestrange said proudly. "De la Tour's on her way here with them now!"

Paul Tudor looked smug. "Told you they were here," he said.

"Four?" Constance said sharply. "Are you sure?"

"Definite," replied Arya Lestrange.

"Saw them ourselves –" her brother continued.

"Outside De la Tour's office –"

"We were polishing the doorknobs –"

"As you do –"

"And Felix came out and told us to sod off –"

"Which we did –"

"But not before we saw inside –"

"Two girls and two boys –"

"And they're coming now," Ariel concluded triumphantly.

There was a pause whilst the Slytherin students digested this new, unexpected piece of information, then Honoria snapped, "We can't let them see the place like this!"

"Like what?" muttered Harper, rolling his eyes. "The place is spotless, you dozy bint."

Honoria, fortunately, had not heard him, and continued, "I expect the house elves have been slacking again. That's just bloody typical of this place, really it is. But what can you expect from such intellectually deficient creatures? You know, my mother would – how long until they get here?" she turned on the Lestrange twins.

"About five minutes," Arya answered, flopping down into a large plush armchair by the fire.

"Give or take," said Ariel, as he draped himself decoratively over the back of his sister's chair.

"But don't make us tidy up –"

"Cos we're remarkably knackered –"

"To be blunt about it –"

"We ran all the way here –"

"Yes, yes, all right," Honoria said hastily, before they could continue. She looked around the common room disdainfully, and flicked her wand at the carpet. "_Immaculo_!" Presumably a few invisible dust balls vanished, as her stern expression relaxed slightly. Tucking her wand back inside her robes, she attempted to make the rich green sofa look more inviting by plumping up the cushions, murmuring something about house elves under her breath.

Simon Harper had planted himself firmly on the chair next to where Constance had been working, whilst the other Slytherins settled down in various places around the room. Clearly the place was clean enough for everyone except Honoria, who was now running her fingers along picture frames to check for dust.

"Is it just me being a filthy cow, or is there nothing wrong with the blasted common room?" Teresa mumbled.

"You're a filthy cow," said Simon placidly. Teresa gave him a superior sneer.

"Honestly, if she thinks this place is bad, she should see the state of the Gryffindor common room," murmured Paul Tudor. "They've probably got bubotubers growing under their furniture."

"How do you know?" asked Simon, suspiciously. "Been in there a few times have you?"

Paul grinned. "For one day only," he said. "For one blissful, joyful day only I was privileged to boldly go where no Slytherin has gone before, to see what no Slytherin has seen before –"

" – What no Slytherin would want to see –" interrupted Simon, who'd obviously guessed where this was heading.

" – I had the great honour of being invited into the Gryffindor common room," Paul continued blandly, running an idle hand through his fair hair.

"Flitwick let you in, didn't she?" Constance guessed, sniggering. "Go on, how far did you get?"

"Did you get past the common room?" Teresa teased. "To the stairs? Did you go all the way?"

"All the way – to the girls' dormitory?" Constance laughed.

"Or did she come to her senses," Simon asked, smirking, "and kick you out?"

Paul looked offended. "A Gryffindor, kick _me_ out? What a novel concept."

"Well, tell us then," Simon said. "What happened?"

Paul smiled a satisfied smile. "Let's just say Laura Flitwick knows when she's onto a good thing." 

"Oh," Ariel said, eyes flashing maliciously, "and she was "onto" you, was she?"

"Even Flitwick's got more sense than that," giggled Arya.

"Oh, you wound me, you wound me," exclaimed Paul, clutching his heart dramatically.

"Jolly good," said Ariel brightly. "Keep up the good work, oh twin of mine."

"Mock me not," Paul moaned. "For each cruel word you utter is like a blade in my heart."

"Paul – you haven't _got_ one," Teresa laughed.

He considered this for a moment, chewing his lip. "Good point," he said.

Honoria had stopped scouring the cracks and crannies of the room for dust, and was glaring over at them. "Must you lower the tone in such a vulgar fashion?" she asked, haughtily.

As the twins began to tease the seventh year, Constance glanced over to where Tom Riddle was sitting. Instead of joining in the conversation, he had begun to read one of his overly heavy books, occasionally making notes on a piece of parchment. He showed no interest whatsoever in the rest of the room, and indeed, didn't seem to notice their existence. She wondered what it would be like to be able to lose oneself so completely in work. As if sensing her eyes upon him, he looked up and met her gaze. He looked slightly taken aback, and she instantly returned her attention to the irate Honoria.

"I despair of this house sometimes, I really do," Honoria was saying.

"You know your problem, Hon darling?" asked Ariel grinning.

Honoria glared at him. "Don't even think about it," she warned him. 

"You need to relax," Arya said, her voice full of solicitude. "Stress can do you right in, you know."

Whatever Honoria was about to say in reply was lost, as the door slid open in a remarkably assertive fashion. The room was silent as Professor de la Tour walked in, followed by four nervous looking students.

__

These must be the Beauxbatons transfers, Constance thought as she looked at them. _They don't look up to much. Couple of good hexes would finish them off. _

The head of Slytherin's eyes swept over the assembled students. Cool and composed as ever, there was no discernable trace of emotion in her voice as she addressed her house.

"You are no doubt aware by now that these four students have become part of Slytherin House. This – arrangement – is for the foreseeable future," she said. "Naturally, I expect you to do your best to welcome them, and make Slytherin House a safe haven for them. Jacques Sarrassin will be joining the seventh year students," continued the Head of Slytherin, gesturing to a short tanned boy with shrewd brown eyes. He nodded slightly to the watching students. "Remy Flaubert and Camille Chirac will be amongst the sixth years, and Elise Javert is joining the fifth years." 

The other three students dipped their heads as their names were spoken. Remy Flaubert had light brown hair that needed cutting, and bright green eyes that darted around the common room. Neither he nor the girl beside him – Camille – looked particularly distraught at having been Sorted into Slytherin. She had dark, shoulder length hair that swung whenever she moved her head, and very pale skin. The youngest girl, Elise, looked the most nervous. She kept fiddling with a strand of blonde hair, as soon as she pushed it behind her ear, it immediately fell back into place.

"The prefects will show you to your dormitories," Professor de la Tour said calmly. "They will also inform you of any rules and regulations you need to be aware of during your time at Hogwarts. I do not expect any problems." Her eyes swept once more over her Slytherin students, and when she was satisfied that her point had been made, she left them to it.

Constance felt a small twinge of pity for the new students. Starting afresh at a new school would never be easy, but starting from scratch in Slytherin would be even worse. Loyalties and allegiances were not swiftly forged in Salazar's house, even when you had the best social standing. Although she'd been lucky in having known Aurelius practically since birth, it had taken her, a Malfoy, several years to develop a strong bond with Richard Marlowe. The innate Slytherin reserve, the desire to disguise anything important with flippancy and sarcasm, often made it difficult to get the full measure of people. Then again, she thought, these students had been Sorted into Slytherin for a reason. De la Tour's last sentence made it perfectly clear that they'd have to learn to deal with whatever _welcome_ they were given themselves. There were no safe havens.

Adapt, or sod off. Simple as that. 


	6. Slytherins At Play

Disclaimer: Still not JK Rowling yet. Still living in hope. 

Author's Note: I was worried the Slytherins seemed a bit too _nice_, so hopefully the second part of this chapter alters that. Thanks to the people who reviewed this, it makes it more worthwhile knowing other people are reading it, and hopefully enjoying it.

The Serpentine Chain Part One

Chapter Six – Slytherins At Play

That evening the four ex-Beauxbatons students received a grilling from the curious Slytherins. Remy Flaubert did not appear to be at all at a loss in his new environment. Sinking down onto a floor cushion, green eyes dancing with malicious humour, he answered their questions with such confidence that it was apparent even to the most unobservant that the Flaubert family was of considerable standing in France.

"Old _and_ respectable," Aurelius whispered to his two friends. He'd come into the common room with Richard, Felix, Marcus, and quite a few other Slytherins shortly after de la Tour had left. The Head Boy had briefly welcomed the new students, introducing them to the prefects, then had gone to sit down with Honoria Corelli. Aurelius had headed straight for Constance's table, a rather tired looking Richard in tow. 

"Where've you been?" she'd asked, as Richard yawned widely, resting his head on the table. 

"Library," Richard muttered, glancing at Aurelius. "Had that Arithmancy essay to finish."

"Took ages," Aurelius agreed. "So these are them, then?" he said, paying no real attention to grammar. His black eyes had taken in the two sixth year students, revealing nothing. His knowledge of wizarding heritage was extensive, Constance knew. He was on par with her brother there, and that was saying something.

"What's Beauxbatons like?" Teresa Symmonds asked Remy curiously, a slight smile playing on her lips. "I've never met anyone from there before."

Remy laughed easily. "It is not at all like Hogwarts," he said, in flawless English. "Much warmer, of course – and much less stone. Beauxbatons is less forbidding, I think."

"Less Gothic," added Camille Chirac. "More – pastoral." Although her English was nowhere near as good as Remy's, she spoke with hardly any trace of an accent. Unlike the apparently outgoing Remy, she seemed quieter, more watchful.

"Chiracs are alright too," Aurelius murmured. "Not as old as the Flauberts, but definitely acceptable." 

"Symmonds level?" Constance said quietly, so that only Richard and Aurelius would hear, as she tried to find a British equivalent for Camille Chirac's social status. 

Aurelius nodded. "About that. They'll do."

"What about the other two? Javert and Sarrassin?" she asked, then paused. 

Her brother Marcus had halted his conversation with Tom Riddle, to talk to Jacques Sarrassin. He appeared to have asked him a question, and judging by his curled lip, he was displeased with the answer. 

"Why didn't you choose Durmstrang?" he asked the other French students suddenly, his voice cutting through the chattering. "Why Hogwarts?"

Camille Chirac met his gaze calmly. "I cannot answer for the other students," she said. "But I chose to come here because I am familiar with the country, I speak the language, and the syllabus is not vastly different to that of Beauxbatons."

"We'd have been disadvantaged at Durmstrang," Remy agreed. "They've been taught Curses, Pyromancy – all sorts – since their first year. It'd have been too much to catch up on in just two years."

Marcus looked dissatisfied, but did not press the subject. Instead, he turned back to Riddle and continued with his conversation. Try as she might, Constance could not make out what they were talking about, and wondered if they'd cast a Silencing Charm over themselves. Marcus was whispering animatedly, gesticulating rapidly with his hands. Asphodel, her brother's cat, purred contentedly as she wove her way around their legs. Tom Riddle was leaning back in his seat, twirling his wand between his fingers. Occasionally the tall sixth year student would interrupt her brother, shaking his head. It wasn't the first intense conversation she'd seen between them, and not the first time she'd been curious as to what the two talked about. She'd asked her brother about it once, and had been rebuffed.

"We're talking about man-things," Marcus had said curtly, frowning at her. "You wouldn't understand, so keep your nose out."

She'd scowled, and said with false sweetness, "Aw, man-things, eh? Feeling a little insecure maybe? That's so touching – I'd no idea what a _sensitive_ soul you were."

He hadn't bothered to respond, but had given her an irritated glare before returning to his work.

Aurelius' voice dragged her out of her reverie. "What do you think he's so bothered about?"

Looking away from her brother's conversation, she replied, "Whether they're from right thinking families, probably."

"You mean, why did they choose Hogwarts when they could've gone to Durmstrang?" Aurelius asked.

"Probably," Constance said, considering it. "Marcus wanted to go there, you know, but our parents thought it was too far away. They want to keep us nearby. He was really annoyed when he got sent here instead – thought Durmstrang would've suited him more."

"Durmstrang's very selective about its students," Aurelius said pensively. "Admittedly, so was Salazar Slytherin, but we're only one house – Hogwarts accepts anyone, whatever their origins."

"That'll be why he's asking," Constance decided. "He wants to know if they chose Hogwarts because they're Muggle-lovers. You wouldn't expect them to have been Sorted into Slytherin if that'd been the case though – the Hat doesn't make mistakes like that."

"Sounds like they just wanted to be in familiar territory," said Aurelius. "I wouldn't want to have to cram five years worth of Pyromancy into two."

"Hell, no," Constance agreed, suddenly tired.

It was nearly half past ten. She looked at Richard, who was very nearly asleep with his head resting on his arms, and prodded him in the side. He blinked sleepily.

"If you're so tired, go to bed," Constance said, noticing he looked rather pale.

"Can't," Richard mumbled. "Got an Arithmancy essay due for tomorrow."

"I thought you'd just done that?" she asked, confused.

"I meant Transfiguration," Richard said hastily, correcting himself.

"Bed's a good idea," Aurelius said, cutting them both off. "Come on, Marlowe."

And with that, Aurelius Snape shepherded his sleepy friend through the door leading to the boys' dormitory, leaving behind a rather bewildered Constance.

*

The four long house tables were laden with large bowls of porridge, plates of toast, bread rolls, eggs and bacon. The enchanted ceiling was a fresh blue, smattered with a few white wisps of cloud. Constance and Teresa were sitting next to Aurelius, who was poring over a rather tattered looking copy of Advanced Arithmancy. He'd barely glanced up at them as they joined him, and greeted them absently. Richard, to the other side of Aurelius, was busy telling Camille and Remy about the teachers and lessons they'd be having that morning, whilst the Lestrange twins were talking Quidditch in very loud voices in order to ensure that Jacques Sarrassin – who had flown as a Chaser at his old school – could understand. He looked politely interested as the twins energetically demonstrated the Barrowdown Block – a vicious Beaters assault – using their porridge spoons for extra emphasis. 

Constance had only just started to eat her toast when a rushing sound overhead indicated the arrival of the owl post. The birds circled the hall, dropping letters down onto the tables below. There were more than the usual number of screech owls delivering newspapers this morning - the arrival of the Beauxbatons transfer students had awakened everybody's interest. The whole school wanted to know what was happening to the European wizarding community. The Ministry had sent Aurors abroad to help with the Resistance in Occupied countries, but the Dark forces had yet to target Britain. Grindelwald was a distant threat to most students, a name to be avoided if possible, but so far the dark wizard had had little impact on the British magical world in general. The presence of the Beauxbatons students was an abrupt reminder of the fragile nature of their own security. Many students had taken out subscriptions to the newspapers so they could keep up to date.

A screech owl arrived for Richard, bearing his morning copy of the _Daily Prophet. _He put his pumpkin juice down and unfolded it, glancing at the front page.

"We're in the news!" he said, startled.

Aurelius looked up from his book, surprised. "Us?!"

"Well, not us personally," Richard amended. "Hogwarts is mentioned – but it's Beauxbatons mainly." He passed over the paper so they could all see. Constance leaned over Aurelius' shoulder to get a better view.

__

SITUATION IN EUROPE GRAVE - BEAUXBATONS STUDENTS FLEE read the banner headline.

__

Shocking reports from the Ministry of Magic have revealed that the future of French wizarding education is in grave danger, writes Special Correspondent Martha Figg. _The_ Daily Prophet _can reveal that the magical school of Beauxbatons - once a bastion for freethinking witches and wizards throughout Europe – has succumbed to the insidious advance of Dark forces. Since the discovery of three Grindelwald supporters on the Beauxbatons staff, confidence in the school's security and protection has rapidly diminished. Despite the attempts of Mlle Jeury, Headmistress to reduce panic, it is clear that the school will shortly be facing closure._

__

This comes as no surprise to French parents – most have already withdrawn their children from the school. Several have transferred to Hogwarts, our own school of Witchcraft and Wizardry, whilst many more have applied to study at the Swiss school in Zurich. Pavel Dolohov has confirmed that Beauxbatons refugees have also been accepted at Durmstrang.

One father, who wished to remain nameless, described the situation as "terrifying – our children could have been attacked at any time. Schools are supposed to be safe – this has really shaken our faith in that belief." He's not alone in this sentiment. Other parents have voiced criticism of Mlle Jeury's fitness to remain in the teaching profession. "I question her judgement," said one irate parent. "She's responsible for exposing our children to three supporters of the most powerful and dangerous Dark wizard this century. What we want to know is how this was allowed – we want answers." French officials at the Commune de la Sorcerie are preparing to launch an inquiry into Mlle Jeury's actions, the Headmistress herself, however, refused to comment.

__

Wizarding analysts have considered what this could mean for the magical community in Britain. Although our Aurors are playing an active role abroad through their undercover work with La Resistance, the Ministry has not yet committed us to a more open role. As public fear increases with the fall of Beauxbatons, a full-scale attack upon Britain looks more likely. A spokesman for the Ministry says that it is "highly probable" that Britain will not remain passive in the war against the Grindelwald's Dark League. Rumours regarding unscrupulous British wizards who profit from the black market by supplying the League's forces are already being investigated by the Department of Mysteries, and loopholes in Customs regulations are soon to be tightened. 

"Mademoiselle Jeury was not entirely to blame," said Camille Chirac, who had been watching them. "She became Headmistress a year after the first League member joined Beauxbatons, she wasn't responsible for him." 

"What did they do at Beauxbatons?" Richard asked curiously. "What did they teach?"

"Monsieur Duchamps was supposed to teach us how to resist the Dark Arts – like your Professor Malfoy," Camille glanced over to Constance's uncle at the staff table. He was sitting in between the Head of Gryffindor and Professor Cale, and, judging by the scowl on his face, was not overly happy about the arrangement.

Remy Flaubert nodded. "We were all shocked when it turned out _he_ was a member of Grindelwald's League. He just didn't seem the type, if you know what I mean."

"It's always the ones you least expect," said Aurelius Snape, as sagely as possible with his mouth full of toast.

The bell rang to start classes, and everyone gathered their things. "What do you have now?" Constance asked Camille politely. 

The French girl checked her timetable. "Defence against the Dark Arts," she said. "With Gryffindors, yes?"

Overhearing them, Paul Tudor groaned. "Why, oh why must I face Andrew Potter this early in the morning? Why? Oh why? Wherefore is such a thing possible?"

"Shut it Paul," said Simon Harper, flicking a few breadcrumbs at him. "Drama queen," he flung in for good measure.

"It's far too early in the morning to have to deal with the brat pack," Constance pointed out, walking towards the door. "Miryum Chandler's so sodding _cheerful, _it's sickening."

"Morning people should be killed," Richard agreed, yawning loudly. "We're going to be late if we don't hurry, by the way."

Despite dire predictions on Richard's part involving Professor Malfoy disinheriting his niece if they were late, the group of Slytherins were definitely dawdling as they went down a narrow, cramped corridor.

"So Slytherin and Gryffindor are rivals?" Remy asked curiously as they headed towards Professor Malfoy's classroom. "I have heard of this, I think."

"Well," Paul answered. "You could describe Salazar Slytherin as a bloody-minded, bitter, vicious, vindictive, malicious, stuck up, elitist, cruel, deranged and downright evil wizard, and you'd still have been a lot politer about him than what the Gryffindor lot are about us."

The frowning Remy was trying to decipher that sentence when Richard took pity on him. 

"Salazar Slytherin and Godric Gryffindor founded Hogwarts, along with Rowena Ravenclaw and Helga Hufflepuff, over a thousand years ago," he explained, as they walked down the corridor. "According to _Hogwarts: A History_, the rivalry between our houses goes right back to the founders."

"It's not surprising," Paul added, "bearing in mind that Slytherin was forced out of Hogwarts because of Godric, but the Gryffindors do like to pin it all on us."

"Very touching," came a male voice from behind them. "Why not tell them the truth, now?"

Constance knew who it was without having to turn around. The Gryffindor brat pack, as she liked to call them – Andrew Potter, Jacob Bernstein, Maria Ashington and Stuart Coombes. Loud, obnoxious pranksters, they never missed an opportunity to cause trouble with the Slytherins by championing whichever hapless Hufflepuff had been the brunt of the latest joke. _Always on guard, defending the people's rights,_ she thought irritably. _Self-righteous idiots._

The Slytherin students turned slowly around to face the challenge, spreading out until the corridor was blocked.

"Oh look!" exclaimed Simon. "Potter's actually managed to put words together and form a sentence! Perhaps the effect of all those Bludgers is finally starting to wear off!"

It wasn't the best of insults, but as the Gryffindors were outnumbered anyway, it didn't matter.

"Very funny, Harper," snapped Maria Ashington, a lanky girl with thick red hair. "How long did it take you to think that one up?"

"Oh how can you ask such a heartless question, Maria my sweet?" asked Richard, smirking. "You know time stands still whenever he sees your face."

Maria's cheeks turned as red as her hair. _Not attractive,_ Constance thought.

Jacob Bernstein glared. "Watch it, Marlowe," he said threateningly.

"You can't hold him responsible," Constance said, eyes widening innocently. "Boys will be boys."

"And you do have _such_ a beautiful face, Maria darling," Paul chipped in, gallantly. 

Remembering Laura Flitwick, Constance shot him a look – brainless sod probably meant it as well.

"Face that launched a thousand ships, that," Richard Marlowe continued, grinning maliciously. 

"Course, they were sailing _away_ from it," Simon sniggered, and they all laughed.

Andrew Potter was practically foaming at the mouth. "Who the _hell_ do you think you are?" he exclaimed furiously, as Maria, close to tears, turned on her heel and fled. "You think you're so damn special it gives you the right to walk all over people –"

"Potter, Potter, Potter," sighed Aurelius, who until now had not spoken. "How can I put this to you, in words you'll understand?"

"What are you talking about, Snape?" spat Bernstein.

"It's quite simple, really," said Constance soothingly. "You'll get the hang of it soon enough."

"You see, Potter," continued Aurelius nonchalantly. "There's a difference between merely _thinking_ you're something special…."

"And actually _being_ special," Richard finished for him. "But not to worry, eh?"

"It's not something they'll ever have to worry about," Aurelius said to the other Slytherins, disregarding Stuart Coombe's disgusted spluttering. "Best they don't worry their little heads with such difficult concepts...I was wrong to have brought it up…"

"You make me sick!" Andrew Potter hissed. "You've made Maria cry and you couldn't care less!"

"Well, he seems to have summed up that situation pretty succinctly," Richard said to Aurelius. "Maybe he'll grasp the rest when he's older?"

Potter's temper was never far from boiling point, and suddenly reached it. "That's enough from you!" he shouted, wand in hand. The remaining Gryffindors moved closer, flanking him.

Richard Marlowe and Andrew Potter were staring at each other, wands out. 

"Well?" asked Richard softly. "What are you going to do?"

"Just one word from you – one more," Potter answered, equally quietly.

"This is an example of Gryffindor stupidity – I mean, _bravery_," Constance said in a stage whisper to Remy and Camille, who were watching with avid interest. She was holding her wand firmly, eyes gleaming. She'd been dying for an opportunity to try out her new hexes on something other than a house elf.

"Shut it, you stuck up bitch," snapped Stuart. 

She smiled sweetly at him. "Come on, then Stuart…show us what you're made of…unless you're afraid of me?"

He scowled, but made no move to attack her. "I'm not dueling a _girl_," he said. 

Trust a Gryffindor to make it too easy.

"Oh _good_," smiled Constance, and then "_Tremens!"_

Stuart suddenly began to shake. She smiled sweetly at his stunned expression as his eyes rolled into the back of his head. He crumpled to the floor, where he continued shaking with increased violence. _What a nice little hex that is_. Highly satisfied, she turned her attention to the others.

Andrew Potter and Richard seemed to have abandoned their magical training entirely in favour of fists, and were rolling on the floor in a really undignified fashion. Aurelius and Bernstein had attacked each other at the same time, the Slytherin's Vomiting Curse colliding with the Gryffindor's Jelly Legs Jinx. _Who the hell uses the Jelly Legs Jinx anyway_, she thought, and fired a quick _Densaugeo _in Bernstein's direction. 

"You know, I feel really superfluous here," Paul said thoughtfully as he watched Aurelius narrowly dodge a stream of blue light from Bernstein's wand. "_Impedimenta_!" he called, hurling the jinx at the Slytherin's opponent.

"Only here?" Simon said, grinning. Then - "What did you do to Coombes?" he asked Constance.

She allowed herself the briefest moment of smugness before answering. "Just made use of a little hex my uncle taught me during the summer. I'm a _good_ student, aren't I?" 

Camille and Remy were laughing openly at Stuart, who was still shaking on the floor. Somewhat regretfully, she took the hex off him – tempting though it was, she didn't want to do any serious damage.

"So, this is Hogwarts house rivalry," murmured Camille. 

"This is payback," said Paul grimly. "Makes up for what they did last time we clashed."

Remy's curious "Oh?" was forestalled by the arrival of a very angry Professor Seraphim. Behind him was Maria Ashington, eyes puffy.

"EXPELLIARMUS!" cried Seraphim, pointing his wand at Aurelius and Jacob Bernstein. Both their wands instantly flew out of their hands, and they stepped backwards slightly. 

"Ah," Camille said very softly. "I presume this is punishment?"

__

Oh shite, Constance thought. 

"Would one of you like to explain what is going on here?" asked the Head of Gryffindor, eyes flashing with rage. 

Richard Marlowe stopped struggling with Andrew Potter and sat up. His brown hair was in a severe state of disarray, and he had the beginnings of a black eye. Potter was no better, Constance was pleased to see. His lip was split and there was blood all over his robes. Suddenly, he looked incredibly nervous.

"They attacked us, Professor," Remy spoke up guilelessly. Camille nodded, eyes wide.

Constance was slightly taken aback, but pleased that the new students had decided where their loyalties lay. Easy decision, really, when you considered the alternatives. Being outcasts in Slytherin House wouldn't be that enjoyable, would it?

"Really?" Professor Seraphim asked, voice laden with disbelief.

Andrew Potter, instantly incensed, shouted "They're lying, sir, it wasn't like that at all!"

"I'm quite sure it wasn't, Potter," replied the Head of Gryffindor, eyes flickering over the two French students in disdain. 

"She did something to Stuart, sir," Jacob Bernstein said angrily. "He was shaking on the floor like he was having some kind of seizure – I think it was the Cruciatus curse sir!"

Constance couldn't help herself. "No it bloody well wasn't, you idiot," she said, trying to restrain a laugh. 

Professor Seraphim's eyes bored into her. "You are aware of the penalty for perfoming Unforgivable Curses?" he asked.

"Yes, quite aware sir," she answered. "But I didn't perform any Unforgivables today." She stressed the last word, just to test his reaction. It didn't disappoint.

"Miss Malfoy," he said, absolutely livid. "Do you think that this is a joking matter?!"

"No sir," she replied, suddenly submissive. She didn't want to push the boat too far.

"I am absolutely appalled at your behaviour," Professor Seraphim said, voice tight. "All of you," he added, glancing at the Gryffindors, who looked suitably penitent. "I would have thought you would have been trying to set a good example for the transfer students, instead of roping them into bad habits. Two weeks detention. For _all_ of you. And I shall be taking fifty points from _both_ houses - this kind of behaviour is never acceptable, whatever the provocation."

The Slytherins relaxed slightly – they'd easily make up those points in Professor Malfoy's lessons.

"I will be seeing your head of House about this," continued Professor Seraphim. "And you will each apologize to Miss Ashington for your comments."

__

Que sera, sera, Constance thought.

"I'm sorry I said that you had such a beautiful face, Maria," Paul said, eyes dancing with malice.

"And I'm sorry I said that you had the face that launched a thousand ships," Richard Marlowe said innocently.

"And I'm sorry I said they were sailing away from it," Simon said.

As Maria flushed again, Constance sniggered mentally. Professor Seraphim looked ready to shit bricks. _You asked for it_, she thought.

"Get to class. Now!" he barked, red with fury. "Not you, Miss Malfoy," he snapped, as the students began to disperse. "I want a word with you – in my office." 

Oh _fantastic._

He stormed off, evidently expecting her to follow. She glowered at his retreating back, and flashed a pointed glance at Aurelius and Richard. Understanding her meaning, they hurried quickly to what remained of their Defence against the Dark Arts lesson.

She reluctantly set off after Professor Seraphim, wondering how long before her uncle caught up with them. 

This could be fun.


	7. Consequences

Disclaimer: yeah yeah yeah, none of it is mine. "fanfiction.net" kind of gives it away, don't you think?

Reviewers: Winged Kamui: I have no objection whatsoever to you reviewing this at Death Eater World Fiction. As long as you say _nice_ things. Faith Accompli: by the "changing" in the Liveship Trilogy, do you mean what happens to Malta and Selden? It was probably necessary, but personally I think the trilogy ends a bit too "neatly", and it's more of a happy ending than that of the Farseer Trilogy, but I'm still addicted to it…read "Fool's Errand" yet? Rose Flame: I was trying to write this whilst talking to you and Nighteyes, so if it's dodgy, it's your damn fault!

The Serpentine Chain Part One

Chapter Seven – Consequences

Aurelius and Richard hurried to catch up with the others. Paul and Simon were busy recounting a particularly vicious Quidditch match in which the feud between Gryffindor and Slytherin had literally reached new heights, and the two French students were lapping it up. They didn't seem to be in much of a hurry to get to Professor Malfoy's lesson, and Constance's friends soon overtook them. The four Gryffindors had already disappeared down the corridor, knowing full well that the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher would not let them get away with being late.

"Hardly worth bothering with the lesson now," grumbled Richard, touching his swollen face gingerly. "Trust Potter to make us late."

Aurelius smiled, although his thoughts were with Constance. "Seraphim looked really pissed off," he said. "It's at times like this I'm glad I'm not a Malfoy."

Richard made a dismissive sound. "She'll be alright. She's blonde, she's pretty, Seraphim's got no chance. She'll get away with it. Lucky cow," he added enviously.

Aurelius was skeptical. "She'll have to do more than bat her baby blue eyes at him this time," he said. "That dunderhead who accused her of using the Cruciatus curse didn't do her any favours."

"I mock the world that saw fit to create Jacob Bernstein," Richard agreed, as the two boys rounded a corner, passing several suits of armour that clanked suggestively at them.

"Nice curse she used, though," Aurelius mused appreciatively. "Perfect for making people look stupid…_Not_ that Coombes needs any help in that department," he added swiftly.

"I'm not dueling a _girl_," Richard mimicked, adopting a high pitched voice which he dropped before continuing, "I can't think of a quicker way to arouse the wrath of Constance Malfoy."

"It's the wrath of Octavius Malfoy that we need to arouse quickly," Aurelius said. They were nearly at the classroom where Constance's uncle taught Defence against the Dark Arts. "Constance won't like having to wait in Seraphim's office for longer than necessary."

Richard squinted malevolently at him through an increasingly puffy eye. "Tell him she's crying," he suggested, grinning.

"In front of Gryffindors?" Aurelius smiled cruelly. "That's below the belt even by your standards!"

Richard attempted to look innocent, something he'd never been particularly good at. "I wouldn't do something like that to Constance," he said virtuously. "Now, if it was _you_ in her position…"

Aurelius deliberately ignored him. "All we have to do is say she's been accusing of using an Unforgivable and he'll be after Seraphim quicker than a Bludger."

"You can do the talking then," Richard murmured. The four other Slytherins had caught up with them as Aurelius opened the classroom door.

They were the last to arrive, Aurelius noted. The four Slytherins who hadn't been involved in the corridor incident were sitting at the back of the classroom – the Lestrange twins looked downright jealous that they'd missed all the action. Teresa Symmonds stared at Richard Marlowe's bruised face and smiled at him in a weird, half-proud half-shy way. It was, as ever, impossible to tell what Tom Riddle was thinking, but with one eyebrow raised, he definitely looked intrigued.

Maria Ashington was staring resolutely at the blackboard, determinedly avoiding the smug faces of the Slytherins. Miryum Chandler shot them all baleful glances, and Andrew Potter just glared, holding a handkerchief to his lip in an attempt to staunch the blood. Stuart Coombes, white faced and queasy looking, was obviously trying to be the brave little Gryffindor as he sat rigid with straight-backed indignation. 

Professor Malfoy was clearly irate, snapping at Potter for having dripped blood on the classroom floor. "You can get that cleaned up yourself," he snarled.

Miryum Chandler raised her hand. "Sir – don't you think he should go to the hospital wing?"

Constance's uncle scowled at her, then glanced at Potter. "Is it broken?" he snapped.

Andrew Potter met his gaze defiantly. "I don't think so sir," he said, his voice full of outraged pride.

"I should've hit him harder," Richard murmured so softly only Aurelius caught it.

"Do you feel as though you require medical assistance, Potter?" Professor Malfoy asked, his drawl managing to convey a distinct lack of interest and concern for the boy's welfare.

"No sir," the dark haired Gryffindor replied, obviously unwilling to imply that Marlowe's punch had been strong enough to warrant medical attention.

__

Typical, Aurelius thought, then cleared his throat. 

Professor Malfoy swung round to face the six Slytherins, who'd sidled up to him. "Well?" he demanded, his tone notably less harsh.

"Sorry we're late sir," Aurelius said smoothly. "We were unavoidably detained by Professor Seraphim."

Octavius Malfoy wore his customary bored expression, but his eyes narrowed at the mention of the head of Gryffindor. He glanced quickly at the group who'd just arrived, taking in the absence of his niece, and –

"Where is Miss Malfoy?" he asked softly, staring at the suddenly uncomfortable Gryffindors.

Aurelius glanced deliberately at Jacob Bernstein. "I thought one of the others would have told you, sir," he said silkily. "Professor Seraphim seems to think that she put the Cruciatus Curse on Stuart Coombes, sir."

Professor Malfoy's nostrils flared as he rounded upon the Gryffindor. "And is this true, Coombes?"

Stuart Coombes looked slightly abashed. "Not quite, sir."

"Then perhaps someone would be kind enough to enlighten me as to _why_ Professor Seraphim is under this delusion?" Malfoy said coldly.

Aurelius' voice oozed pure malice. "Jacob Bernstein told him, sir," he said, in the slippery tones that _really_ got under Gryffindor skin.

"She attacked him, sir –" Andrew Potter began indignantly, and was instantly cut off.

Octavius Malfoy's stare could've frozen the fiery flames of hell at that moment. "You accused Miss Malfoy of this, Berstein?"

The plump Muggle-born student was visibly trembling. _So much for Gryffindor bravery_, Aurelius thought, amused. 

"Well…I…er…she _did_ put a curse on him, sir."

Malfoy gave the student an incredibly vicious glare. Aurelius, who had quite a wide selection of filthy looks, was impressed. 

"She used the Tremens hex, sir," Richard broke in. "She took it off straightaway, though."

"Class dismissed," snapped Constance's uncle. "I want two scrolls on the correct ways to identify and disable a Bulgarian vampire by next week, that's _Bulgarian_ not _Hungarian_, Coombes, try and get it right for once, and no, Miss Chandler, whatever it is, I _do not want to hear it_!" he hissed at the girl who'd been foolish enough to raise her hand. 

He swept out of the classroom. There was a brief silence, than a loud babble of noise as the furious Gryffindor students left. Snatches of their conversation were clearly audible _– can't believe their nerve – hope the snobby cow gets what's coming – is your nose all right – _

"I believe our work is done," Aurelius said smugly, as the Slytherins slowly made their way to their common room.

"What _happened_?" asked Teresa eagerly. There was a hungry look in her eyes as she took in Richard Marlowe's slightly disheveled appearance. "Are you all right?"

__

Looks like someone's found himself an admirer, Aurelius noted as Teresa started to fuss over Richard. 

"We're alright," said Simon Harper, grinning. "Constance was _brilliant_."

"_Did_ she use the Cruciatus Curse?" Teresa gasped.

"Of course not," Richard said, smirking callously at the memory of Stuart shuddering on the floor. "Almost as good though."

The Lestrange twins were practically green with envy.

"All this fun –"

"And we were stuck in here –"

"Learning about sodding _vampires_?!"

"Just goes to show –"

"Life is pain," Arya Lestrange ended, resignedly.

"That's very profound," Paul Tudor said, grinning. "Been talking to Dumbledore recently, have we?"

Both twins shot him a _look_, and he subsided.

Aurelius suddenly noticed that Tom Riddle was looking at him shrewdly. Riddle nodded and smiled as he met his gaze, as though bestowing a benediction. Aurelius, flustered for once in his life, looked away.

*

As it happened, Constance Malfoy had never used the Cruciatus curse.

But she was seriously considering it.

For starters, Professor Matthew Seraphim's legs were longer than hers, and she'd had to break into a half run to keep up with him – something that decidedly did little to endear him to her. When they'd reached their destination, she'd been pleasantly surprised to see Professor Cale, drinking a cup of tea and admiring the Quidditch posters that adorned the Flight instructor's office. The Chudley Cannons featured predominantly, all players waving energetically at Professor Cale.

"You took your time – oh, hello Constance," he'd said amiably. 

"Professor Cale," she replied, smiling warmly at him. He was a nice, easy to handle teacher, she'd found. It was amazing how far a smile and a not entirely feigned interest in 13th century Gregorian chants could take you. Then again, not that amazing. He was a Ravenclaw, after all. If he was going to be here, perhaps he'd have a calming influence on Seraphim. 

No such luck.

"Christopher," Seraphim said tightly. "I'm afraid we'll have to carry on our discussion later – I need to have a little chat with Miss Malfoy." 

From behind the head of Gryffindor's back, Constance smiled ruefully at Professor Cale. She was sure she saw a quickly concealed flash of sympathy in his brown eyes. 

"Certainly, Matthew," Christopher Cale said politely, putting down his empty teacup. "I'll come back at a more convenient time – thank you for the tea, by the way."

"Any time," Seraphim replied, holding the door open as the Chantwork teacher passed through. "I'll get back to you as soon as I've dealt with Miss Malfoy." He said her name grimly, not bothering to disguise the loathing in his voice.

Professor Cale shot her a brief smile. "Good day Constance," he said. "I'll see you this afternoon, no doubt."

"Goodbye Professor," she said sweetly, ignoring the scowl on Seraphim's face. 

When the door shut behind the ex-Ravenclaw, the brown haired Flight teacher turned abruptly to Constance. 

"Sit," he said abruptly, jerking his head in the direction of a dark mahogany hard-backed chair. She crossed the room and sank down obediently, clasping her hands tightly in her lap. Then she waited, looking up at him innocently.

Matthew Seraphim's pale blue eyes glinted with anger. His voice was frigid with dislike as he spoke. "You might be under the impression that school rules are beneath the likes of you, Miss Malfoy," he said, "but happily I am here to disabuse you of this notion."

Constance didn't answer, sensing that he was trying to provoke her. He looked barely able to keep his temper in check. Frowning almost imperceptibly, she decided upon a slight change of tactics. She adopted a penitent expression, biting her lip slightly, and looking down at her clasped hands.

Seraphim's voice trembled with suppressed rage. "You seem to be labouring under the delusion that you're something special in the Hogwarts community," he said, somewhat bitterly. "No doubt you believe you're the queen of Slytherin, but to me, Miss Malfoy," he said, articulating her name very clearly, "to me you are simply a spoiled little brat with a distinct lack of respect for anyone other than yourself."

Constance was aware her hands were shaking slightly, and she squeezed her fingers together, hard. She met the head of Gryffindor's gaze squarely. _Queen of Slytherin_ indeed, she thought. _That's Harper's job._

"I didn't use the Cruciatus curse, sir" she said, allowing her voice to quaver slightly. "If you plan to accuse me, I'd like to have my Head of House present."

Seraphim snorted disdainfully at the mention of Nadine de la Tour. "What did you do to Coombes that led Mr. Bernstein to believe you were using an Unforgivable curse?" he asked angrily.

Constance Malfoy felt her stomach churn uncomfortably as she murmured, "The Tremens hex, sir." She injected a note of anxiety into her voice as she added, "It doesn't do any damage, sir, I took it off straightaway –"

Professor Seraphim's eyes bored into her furiously. "Do you think your status will protect you from everything, Malfoy?" he spat viciously. "One day you'll go too far – then even your precious purity of blood won't help you out."

She said nothing, slightly startled at the bitterness in his voice, until she remembered that Seraphim was Muggle-born. Probably had an axe to grind. Probably jealous of the privileges her wealth and family had brought her. _A social conscience, how tedious_.

"Be warned now, Malfoy," said the head of Gryffindor softly. "And maybe you'll break the – bad habits – that seem to be inherent in your family."

She stared at him, shocked. Had he completely lost his senses? Insulting a member of the Malfoy family was never a wise move, but implying that the Malfoys had _bad blood_, when there was a member of that family on _staff_ was practically suicidal. _Hopefully that member of staff will hurry the hell up and get here, _she thought, inwardly fuming. 

It was time to put her plan into action. She lowered her head, and bit into the soft flesh of her cheeks until tears sprang into her eyes. She took a quick, shuddering breath, and looked directly at Professor Seraphim, allowing a few tears to spill down her cheeks. She was instantly gratified by the look of complete surprise on his face. Dealing with weeping Malfoys obviously wasn't something your average head of Gryffindor had ever had to face before.

"I wasn't thinking clearly, sir," she said, voice tremulous. "He – he just made me so _angry._"

She could see that he was at a loss. Visibly taken aback, he was searching for words. "Well," he said, voice considerably less harsh, "what could he possibly have said that was so terrible?"

Constance wiped away a tear that had rolled down her cheek. "It's not easy being a girl in Slytherin," she said. Her voice wasn't anywhere near the level of trembliness needed for the maximum sympathy vote, but it'd do. "You have to work so much harder to be accepted – especially if you're from an old family – people just see you as an ornament –"

He said nothing, but waited for her to continue. She noted that his clenched jaw had relaxed slightly, and was encouraged.

Constance went on. "He – he said he wouldn't duel with me because I was a girl," she said softly, casting a perfectly timed glance back down to her entwined fingers. "I didn't expect a Gryffindor to be so discriminating."

That last was a blatant lie, Constance knew. Although the Gryffindors tolerated, and indeed, welcomed students that good Slytherins wouldn't touch with a barge-pole – mudbloods for example, and that blasted half-giant who'd been expelled last year – they were definitely not interested in equality of the sexes. It was their unspoken code of honour that was the problem. Stuart Coombes had probably been trying to be a gentleman, or some other form of antiquated nonsense. As if being male had given him an unfair advantage over her. _He knows better than that now_, she thought, grimly amused.

Professor Seraphim was again surprised. Obviously he'd never expected a Slytherin – let alone a Malfoy – to be championing equal rights, bearing in mind Salazar Slytherin's tendencies. Seraphim resorted to a tried and tested response.

"Well, whatever the reason, violence is never the answer," he said, awkwardly. "Here – you might need this –" He waved a handkerchief vaguely in her direction.

She took it, noting with amusement the winking Golden Snitches embroidered on it, and dabbed at her eyes. Inwardly, she smiled at her success. Crying wouldn't have worked with her uncle, or Professor de la Tour. Possibly not even with the Head of Ravenclaw, Lydia Grey. They'd have seen right through her tears straightaway. A chivalrous Gryffindor, however, was duty bound to comfort her – after all, she was a _girl_. Constance was all for equal rights. As long as she came out on top.

In the moment's silence that followed, there was a very determined knocking on the door. If a knock could be said to contain centuries of aristocratic breeding, intense fury and a certain sense of vengefulness, that of Octavius Malfoy upon Professor Seraphim's office door would fit the description perfectly. It would brook no opposition.

Without waiting for a response, Octavius Malfoy flung open the office door and entered. Although his face was deliberately expressionless, his features a carved mask, there was an almost imperceptible twitching in his cheek as he took in the sight before him. His niece took the opportunity to wipe her eyes with Seraphim's handkerchief again, just to make sure her uncle noticed.

Matthew Seraphim was bristling with indignation. "It's usually customary to wait until you're invited in, Octavius," he began.

Constance's uncle treated him to a very cold smile that did not reach his eyes. "I trust you have a good reason for detaining Miss Malfoy in this fashion?"

Seraphim glared venomously at the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher. "I was investigating certain allegations made against Miss Malfoy," he said grimly.

"Allegations, which, according to the other students involved, have been greatly exaggerated," interjected Constance's uncle smoothly.

Professor Seraphim was stubborn. "Miss Malfoy has admitted to hexing a fellow student –"

"A matter which should be dealt with by her Head of House, surely," Professor Malfoy responded swiftly. He'd dropped his assumed mask of civility and was staring at Matthew Seraphim with utter loathing.

There was a pause.

Matthew Seraphim tried a different approach. "I find it somewhat – disturbing – that Miss Malfoy should use a hex of that nature upon a fellow student," he said softly, voice laden with some meaning that Constance failed to understand.

Octavius Malfoy's eyes were like gimlets. "Your point, Seraphim?"

The Flight instructor's face was contemptuous as he continued. "Tell me, _Professor_," – he emphasized her uncle's title – "do you teach hexes like that to all your students?" 

Constance's uncle sneered elegantly. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Seraphim," he said, feigning disinterest. He glanced at the bright orange Chudley Cannons posters with evident distaste.

"I wasn't aware that we taught the Tremens hex to pupils, Malfoy," Seraphim said, still in that soft tone. "But of course – no doubt Miss Malfoy is a particularly apt pupil – no doubt you've given her a little _extracurricular tuition_ –"

As a telltale flush crept over her face, Constance was profoundly grateful that neither of the two men was looking at her. Her uncle had indeed taught her – and her brother – many things that would never be found on the Hogwarts curriculum. _Best to be prepared_, he'd told them. For everything. You can't defeat the Dark unless you know what it is, after all. _Control yourself, idiot_, she scolded.

"What exactly are you insinuating?" Octavius Malfoy said, his voice deadly quiet. 

Professor Seraphim shrugged casually. "Nothing at all," he said, seemingly indifferent. "It just doesn't seem fair that certain pupils should get such an advantage in your subject – but I'm sure you know _exactly_ what you're doing – you're very _experienced_, after all."

The Defence against the Dark Arts teacher's hands were clenched into tight balls by his side, and there was a very unpleasant gleam in his pale eyes. "What do you mean by that, Seraphim?" he asked, voice deceptively soft. "Have you a problem with the way I teach my subject?"

"Of course not," Seraphim replied, his eyes never leaving Malfoy's. "You're certainly the most – _qualified_ – to teach students about the Dark Arts. You've certainly proved your worth in that subject over the years, haven't you?"

They seemed to have forgotten Constance's presence, and for that she was acutely relieved. The tension between the two men was an almost palpable entity. It _prickled. _She wasn't surprised to discover she was holding her breath.

Octavius Malfoy stepped closer to the Flight instructor, speaking so quietly that Constance could barely catch his words. "The Headmaster certainly thinks so, Seraphim. He doesn't seem to share your _scruples_."

"Armando Dippet's too trusting," Seraphim answered scornfully. "You might have grown better at covering the tracks of your little activities, but I _know_ you, Malfoy." 

The Defence against the Dark Arts teacher's stare could have dissected a Hippogriff. "Perhaps you should be more careful, Seraphim," he murmured. He looked the Flight instructor up and down disdainfully. "Slander can cost you – in more ways than one."

"Is that a threat, Malfoy?" replied Seraphim, eyes blazing.

Octavius Malfoy said nothing, merely smiled.

Constance shifted uncomfortably, partly to break the overwhelming silence, and partly because a muscle in her leg had cramped. Becoming aware of her presence, the head of Gryffindor glanced at her in annoyance.

"Get out," snapped Matthew Seraphim. "Both of you."

Constance's uncle inclined his head in acknowledgement, still smiling that strange smile. Beckoning his niece, he turned on his heel and glided out of the room. They were some way down the corridor before he spoke.

"I don't want to know what you hoped to achieve with your little display today," he said, not looking at her. "But I do not expect a repeat performance. Is that clear?"

"Yes, uncle," she replied. _What exactly went on in there_, she wondered. The hatred between her uncle and Professor Seraphim was more than just house rivalry, she was certain of it. It ran deeper than that. What were his "little activities"? She knew her uncle had been involved in slightly disreputable enterprises before accepting the position as Defence against the Dark Arts tutor – but she was sure that Professor Seraphim had been referring to something else. She sensed something secret, something dark. The head of Gryffindor had hinted that her uncle had had first hand involvement in the Dark Arts. _Of course, he does seem to have it in for our family_, she thought. _Grindelwald was probably a Malfoy, according to him._ But her curiosity was very definitely aroused. This wasn't something she could just ask her uncle outright, she'd have to be subtle. She didn't like secrets, unless they were hers.

As they rounded a corner, Professor Malfoy broke into her thoughts. "You can't rely on me to bail you out forever," he said abruptly. "There are people who will think the worst of you, simply for who you are. Do not give them any further reason to do so."

He didn't wait for a reply, but turned right down another corridor, leaving her alone. A portrait of a cavalier with a large ruff smiled down at her sympathetically as she gazed thoughtfully after Professor Malfoy's retreating back. Her uncle's parting words had echoed what Professor Seraphim had thrown at her earlier. 

__

Do you think your status will protect you from everything, Malfoy?….One day you'll go too far – then even your precious purity of blood won't help you out…

Tucking Professor Seraphim's handkerchief into the pocket of her robes, she headed for her Divination lesson, frowning.


	8. Family Affairs

Author's Note: Nothing much happens in this, it's kind of a transition chapter. I've quoted liberally from Mrs. M Grieve's "A Modern Herbal" regarding the Belladonna, the description of the thresher's root and Aurelius' stuff about the morality of learning are quotes from Robin Hobb's "Assassin's Apprentice" – both good Snapely sourcebooks. The ship and all that sail on him aren't mine, sadly enough.

The Serpentine Chain Part One

Chapter Eight – Family Affairs

After the successful completion of the Impervio potion, Aurelius' extra-curricular work with his cousin had increased – Quintus had required his assistance several times in the last week alone. Not for the first time, Aurelius was glad he'd dropped out of the Quidditch team the year before. Even so, it was almost impossible fitting in all his regular work around his covert work with Quintus. He'd had more than one sleepless night catching up on missed assignments. Although his cousin had said something about putting his NEWTs first, they both knew there was no way Aurelius Snape was going to miss out on the chance to brew potions such as the Impervio or Veritaserum – potions he had never been allowed to brew at home. His father was strict about such things.

"You look terrible." Quintus' blunt, yet unconscious echoing of his own thoughts. "Did you sleep last night?" 

"Well enough," Aurelius replied neutrally. He looked closely at his cousin. From the dark circles under Quintus' eyes, Aurelius guessed he wasn't the only Snape suffering from sleepless nights and overwork. He wondered if his cousin had been taking on private orders as well as those from the Ministry. It wouldn't be the first time the Snape family had bent the regulations in that area. Then he wondered if there were other Ministry orders that he knew nothing about. _Probably_, he thought. _By rights I shouldn't know about any of them._

The Potions Master looked slightly abashed. "I didn't mean to sound insulting," he said belatedly. 

Aurelius shrugged. A youthful complexion and shiny glossy hair were not high on his list of priorities right now. There were more important things to think about. "I _was_ up rather late last night," he offered.

Quintus looked at his cousin, expressionlessly. "Lots to do?"

"The usual." Aurelius met his gaze directly. "Nothing I can't handle."

The determination in the Slytherin's dark eyes, so like Quintus' own, seemed to convince the teacher. Yet – "I demand a lot from you, don't I?"

Aurelius' gaze swept over his cousin's face, lingering on the shadows under Quintus' eyes. "No more than from yourself, surely."

"Deadly Nightshade," Quintus said abruptly, tone suddenly that of the demanding, precise teacher that he had so quickly become. "What do you know about it?"

Aurelius' well-trained mind instantly sought and retrieved the plant's details from an extensive mental catalogue. His response was textbook perfect. "Deadly Nightshade is also known as Belladonna, Devil's Cherries, Naughty Man's Cherries, Divale, Black Cherry, Devil's Herb, Great Morel, and Dwayberry. It is widely distributed over Central and Southern Europe, South-west Asia and Algeria; cultivated in England, France and North America –"

"Medicinal uses," Quintus interjected.

Aurelius drew a deep breath. "Narcotic, diuretic, sedative, antispasmodic, mydriatic. Belladonna is a most valuable plant in the treatment of eye diseases, Atropine, obtained during extraction, being its most important constituent on account of its power of dilating the pupil."

He paused, watching his cousin. Quintus nodded for him to continue. 

"As an antidote to Opium, Atropine may be injected subcutaneously, and it has also been used in poisoning by Calabar bean and in wormwood poisoning. It has no action on the voluntary muscles, but the nerve endings in involuntary muscles are paralyzed by large doses, the paralysis finally affecting the central nervous system, causing excitement and delirium." 

Aurelius halted, aware of his cousin's close scrutiny. 

"Good," Quintus said, seemingly satisfied. "Now, _in brief_ – thresher's root."

"Some use it to make an ointment for sore shoulders and backs. That's where the name comes from," Aurelius said, eternally grateful for his good memory. He carried on, watching Quintus as he quoted from the first herbal he'd ever studied. "But if you distil a tincture from it and mix it well in wine it's never tasted, and it will make a grown man sleep a day and a night and a day again, or make a child die in his sleep."

Quintus Snape nodded, his eyes suddenly veiled. 

Aurelius ventured further. "Thresher's root and belladonna, when prepared correctly, form the Nox Mirabilis potion, which can inflict complete paralysis upon the subject, bringing him or her into a semi-comatose state. Hallucinations may occur, depending on the strength of the draught."

His cousin was silent for a moment. "Nox Mirabilis is a potent interrogation aid," he informed Aurelius. "_Not _used by the Ministry," he added swiftly. 

"Grindelwald?" Aurelius asked, not needing the nod of assent from his cousin.

Quintus sighed. "The bodies of three Aurors were found in Belgium last week," he said. "Traces of Nox Mirabilis were found in their bloodstream."

"I thought our Aurors had been taking the Impervio as protection?" 

Aurelius' cousin looked vaguely sickened. "The Impervio builds upon the body's natural resistance. The bodies – what little was left of them – indicated that the Aurors had been weakened by starvation for an indefinite period. No doubt they'd been in captivity for some time."

Aurelius looked at him shrewdly. "I suppose the Minister is under a lot of pressure to retaliate?"

"The dead Aurors have been listed as "missing in action" – the Ministry does not want this to become public knowledge. However, the Minister is considering allowing the Aurors greater powers, yes," Quintus said delicately. "Powers that will enhance their ability to incapacitate, and to interrogate suspects."

"He's not going to authorize the use of Unforgivables, is he?" Aurelius asked in surprise. Andrew Copernicus, the Minister of Magic, was a hide bound traditionalist through and through.

Quintus smiled tiredly. "He'd never keep something like _that _quiet. The liberals in the Ministry would have a field day."

"Professional suicide," Aurelius murmured. "And Grindelwald hasn't threatened us directly yet." 

"He will," Quintus said quietly.

Aurelius looked at him. "What do you mean?"

The Potions Master glanced away; over to where Kirilov's ship brandished a wooden axe in fierce joy. His voice was almost inaudible. "You'll have learned from History of Magic, no doubt, about the years of Grindelwald's rise to power?"

"Of course," Aurelius said, and began to rattle off the contents of one of Professor Binns' many lectures. "Taking advantage of the Muggle World War, he established a power base in Albania in 1915, during a time of civic upheaval and social unrest. In 1917 a skirmish between Romanian wizards and Grindelwald supporters left 150 dead. Reports of disappearances in and around the Black Forest caused concern in the 1920s –"

"Yes, quite," said Quintus hurriedly, stopping his cousin before he could continue. "During any Dark wizard's rise to power, Grindelwald, Richelieu, Skryabin, whoever, there have _always_ been disappearances. Key government officials, public figureheads – the pattern is always the same."

"Well?" Aurelius said, as his cousin paused. 

"Two retired ministry workers – ex-Unspeakables – have disappeared," Quintus said, his voice hushed. "They'd been living under false identities in the north of England for their own protection, but it wasn't enough."

"Why _retired_ ministry workers?" Aurelius asked. "And why Unspeakables? They're not public figures, I'd be surprised if anyone had heard of them."

"They retired fifteen years ago," Quintus said, black eyes distant. "Shortly after the death of the last known visionweaver – Althea Trell. Their department was responsible for the protection and concealment of visionweavers from Grindelwald during the Early Years."

"Could be coincidence," Aurelius said, chewing his lip.

Quintus shook his head. "Unlikely," he answered. "Certain – elements – are exactly similar to the original disappearances in Germany."

Aurelius looked at him curiously. "How do you know?" he asked.

"My dealings with the Ministry are ambiguous," Quintus said flatly. "If they ask me to brew a potentially lethal potion, I have the right to know what it is for."

"So you've been asked to brew Nox Mirabilis," Aurelius guessed. "For the Department of Mysteries, for _purely research_ purposes of course," he added ironically.

"Of course," Professor Snape agreed. 

"And you want me to assist." 

"You know that _research subjects_," he hesitated slightly upon those words, "will undoubtedly succumb to high concentrations of this potion?"

Aurelius nodded.

"And you are prepared to accept your indirect responsibility for this?"

"Is the Ministry aware of my role in this?" asked Aurelius suddenly.

"The Ministry is _officially_ unaware of all our actions," his cousin replied. "And that wasn't what I meant."

"I know what you meant," Aurelius replied. Black eyes met black as a gold-skinned woman shouted something inaudible from the decks of the Paragon. "Why did you tell me? About the Unspeakables?"

Quintus did not look away. "You have to know," he said. "If you are to assist me, you have to know exactly what you're doing, why you're doing it, and what the consequences will be. In brewing certain potions, we come very close to the Dark arts – I need to know you understand why this is necessary."

Aurelius was silent for a moment. Then – "The Ollivanders don't stop making wands out of fear of what we may do with them."

"True," Quintus admitted. "Wands are neutral, whether they kill or heal depends entirely upon the wizard. But you know as well as I that certain potions lack that neutrality."

"We aren't responsible for the actions of others," Aurelius insisted. "If I brewed a simple Sleeping Draught, and someone used excessively large doses in order to kill,_ I_ would not be responsible for it. If I made knives, and one was used to commit a murder, _I_ wouldn't be responsible. What the Aurors do with the Nox Mirabilis is their own responsibility." 

Quintus said nothing, his eyes hooded.

Aurelius continued, prompted by the silence. "_Learning_ is never wrong. Even learning how to brew poisons, potions that kill, isn't wrong. Or right. It's just a thing to learn." 

"Good," Quintus said, but he didn't seem as pleased as he might have. "That's well enough, then," he added, so softly that Aurelius almost missed it.

*

Constance hadn't even been born when her uncle left England in June of 1927. He'd remained in Europe for the best part of a decade, returning to teach at Hogwarts when she was nine. For most of her childhood, her knowledge of Octavius Malfoy had been limited to the brief, occasional letters that had been owled to her father, and the irritable comments with which Julius Malfoy had embellished them. 

Her father was a staunch traditionalist. He'd inherited the family fortune upon the death of their grandfather Caecilius in 1918, and since then had devoted himself to increasing Malfoy prestige, firstly through marriage to Cecilia Zabini, then later through careful involvement in the Wizarding Stock Exchange. He was careful not to involve himself too closely in trade, deeming it "common", yet had sharp business acumen. The same could not be said for his brother.

Octavius Malfoy, it seemed, was the closest her family had ever come to a black sheep. Remaining steadfastly unmarried, unattached and uninterested, despite the repeated exhortations from his brother and father, Octavius had headed for the dubious glamour of Europe shortly after graduating. At the age of twenty, he'd been involved in the fourteenth Transylvanian Civil War of 1929, at twenty-three he was participating in the Siberian War of Independence. A hastily scrawled note, arriving at Malfoy Manor one sunny morning in 1933 informed his relatives that he'd been mingling with Romanian vampires, werewolves, hags "and other unsavoury types," Julius Malfoy had snorted, reading the letter to his wife. "Dabbling in _subhuman politics _is all very well for people without family names and reputations to uphold," he'd informed the family over the dark mahogany breakfast table. "He'd better be damned well careful he doesn't embarrass us further."

Gallivanting around the seedier areas of Eastern and Central Europe – Transylvania, Romania, Albania – and the glamorous – Berlin, Paris, Vienna – Octavius seemed hell bent on becoming some form of international playboy. The Malfoys could do without that kind of behaviour, and Julius had decided to ignore his wayward brother's existence as best he could. Constance and Marcus were forbidden to mention his name, despite their curiosity. The letters Octavius sent his brother were read, but unanswered. Eventually they became even less frequent. This ploy worked up until December 1935, when the large peregrine falcon that arrived, bearing a large letter with an official seal, all but dashed Julius' hopes for a peaceful life. It transpired that Octavius had been arrested by the Société – the French magical community's equivalent to the Aurors. He was charged with unlawful possession of three Manticores, the attempted smuggling of said Manticores across the Spanish border, and the unlawful use of Memory Charms upon various French officials. 

Julius Malfoy had been absolutely livid. Constance and Marcus, eavesdropping, had heard it all. Their father had had to bail his troublesome brother out of the Bastille for a very large amount of money. A further, sizeable amount had had to be spent on bribes – Julius did not want the knowledge of the unrepentant Octavius' exploits brought into the public domain. Finally resolving to settle Octavius down once and for all, he'd convinced Armando Dippet to take him on as Defence against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts, using his brother's misspent years as proof of relevant experience. The board of governors offered no objections – those who weren't related to the Malfoys in some way were employed by them. Octavius' objections had been effectively silenced by Julius' threat to cut off all his financial allowances.

That had been in 1936, two years before Constance had started Hogwarts. She and Marcus had had a definite advantage over the other students, receiving tuition from their uncle before they received their welcoming letter. Once they'd started, they were given extra help during the summer holidays, Octavius teaching them certain things that would only be found on Durmstrang's curriculum. Curses, for example. It was tacitly agreed between the three of them that what Julius Malfoy did not know, wouldn't hurt him.

__

That's it, Constance had thought ruefully. She didn't really know anything more about her uncle. She'd considered simply owling her father with a few carefully phrased questions about Octavius' European sojourn, but had rejected that very quickly. Even if her father accepted that her sudden desire to write was purely down to filial love, it was highly unlikely that he'd be able to satisfy her curiosity. If Seraphim's insinuations were true, and her uncle had dabbled in the Dark Arts, she would never get a straight answer out of her father. He wouldn't want to admit his own lack of knowledge, to begin with – it wasn't likely that Octavius would have told _him_ something of that ilk anyway. 

It was strange. She'd thought she was supposed to be surprised, shocked at the possibility that her uncle might have had something to do with the Dark Arts. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized it was probably true. He'd been in areas of Europe with noted Dark activity, he knew curses and spells that he'd certainly never been taught at Hogwarts, he had not been against a _little rule-bending_ in France, as he'd put it to her irate father. She had been deliberately avoiding probing too deeply into her uncle's past. _Marcus wouldn't have_, she thought suddenly. Then –

__

Marcus will know.

The thought had struck her suddenly, although she wondered if it, too, had been something she'd been repressing. Her uncle and her brother had long conversations together during the summer just gone, conversations ostensibly about his forthcoming NEWTs. Intense looking conversations that ended when she approached. His Defence against the Dark Arts marks, always high, had skyrocketed recently – she knew he'd been practicing privately with her uncle during lunchtimes. She'd been suddenly convinced – Marcus _knew_.

__

I should ask him. But will he tell me the truth?

As she pondered the decision she'd made the night before, she let out a sigh. 

"Sickle for them?" Aurelius murmured softly, breaking into her thoughts.

"The thoughts of a Malfoy are worth far more than that," she replied automatically.

Aurelius, teasing. "Because they're so rare?"

"Quality's better than quantity," she said, taking comfort in their familiar routine. "Surely a Snape should know that."

Professor Cale had assigned the class work at the beginning of the lesson – simply copying notes from one of their textbooks upon the properties of Illusory Chants – so that he could get on with marking seventh year essays about cyclic form chants. Yet as she glanced up at him, he was staring absently off into space, Constance noted, looking even more distracted than she had. He was drumming his fingers to some imaginary music on the desk. Looking at his thin, elegant fingers, Constance thought he must be tapping out some sombre funereal composition.

Aurelius followed her gaze, misinterpreting it. "Oh Gods, Constance, not _again_!" he sighed, eyes bright with amused malice.

She looked at him in surprise. "What?"

"Lockhart was one thing," he said, yawning, "but _Cale_? He's not as dim as your uncle likes to make out, you know – he's bound to notice you swooning and sighing all over the place –"

"I am NOT swooning," Constance said, more loudly than she'd intended. Several people looked around curiously. She carried on in a lower voice. "He merely happened to be in my line of vision, thank you very much."

Aurelius looked highly doubtful, but noting the murderous glint in Constance's eyes, let it go. He turned back to his parchment and began to scribble on it furiously.

She returned to her thoughts. She hadn't told anyone what exactly had gone on in Professor Seraphim's office almost a week ago. The Slytherins had quizzed her mercilessly during Divination, whilst Stuart Coombes, both shaken and stirred, had glowered at her in a manner that was decidedly lacking in chivalrous impulses.

"Well?" Richard had demanded. "What happened?"

"Oh," Constance said. "Seraphim just ranted at me a bit – told me that I'd behaved appallingly, that I was evil, that Slytherins should be made to pick mandrakes without ear muffs – the usual stuff. You know, I think he's got a real chip on his shoulder about something – he seems very bitter towards people who are better off than him."

"Working class hero," Richard nodded wisely. "Some Gryffindors are like that. They have rights, and by GOD they're going to stand up for them!"

Constance smirked at the irritated look on Stuart Coombes' face. He didn't dare say anything in Professor Haven's lesson, but he could undoubtedly hear everything that was said.

Tom Riddle had been listening intently. "I assume Professor Seraphim didn't take kindly to being interrupted?" he said.

"You mean, by my uncle?" Constance asked unnecessarily. "They don't like each other, that's for certain."

"So what happened?" Richard asked eagerly. "Will it be wands at twenty paces at dawn tomorrow?"

"Sorry to disappoint your insatiable bloodlust," Constance said wryly, looking at Richard's war wounds with some amusement. "But they just seethed and snarled at each other. Seraphim technically outranks my uncle – but he's head of _Gryffindor. _Whereas my uncle may not be head of our House, but he _is_ a Slytherin and therefore I should be his responsibility, not Seraphim's."

"What's happening to _you_ then," Tom asked. "I take it your punishment's the same as everyone else's?"

He was looking at her shrewdly, his piercing turquoise eyes meeting hers. She had the distinct impression he knew she was holding something back.

Constance nodded. "Seraphim got so annoyed with my uncle that he ordered us both out of his office, forgetting to add to my punishment. It's just detention for two weeks, like the others. And the points are for all of us, but it won't take long to get them back."

"Your uncle gave me ten at the start of his lesson anyway," Tom said. "So we're only forty down."

"Forty points is _nothing_," Richard proclaimed confidently. "With Tom by our side, we'll do battle as we ride, 'gainst the foe that would lead us astray!" he caroled in an incredibly tuneless whisper.

Both Constance and Tom looked at him.

"Richard, I sincerely hope you die soon," sighed Constance. "In the most painful, humiliating, undignified fashion imaginable."

"That's a Muggle hymn – how on earth do you know it?" Tom asked. 

"Quiet over there," Professor Haven called mildly, ending their conversation. The Gryffindors had scowled at Haven's distinct lack of point taking, but remained silent.

The bell rang, bringing Constance back to the present with a jolt. Professor Cale seemed as disconcerted as she, glancing down at the large amount of paperwork on his desk, but recovered quickly and dismissed them without homework. As they left the classroom, she noted he was already lost in his thoughts again.

__

Marcus, she thought, incongruously.

*

Review? http://www.fictionalley.org/schnoogle/reviews/showthread.php?s=&threadid=2968


	9. Distracting Riddles

Disclaimer: JK Rowling – rich, famous, goddess. Me – living in hope. I did not invent the Potterverse, nor did I invent a certain Chantwork teacher's brother. Ten points to the person who spots his real life origin. Gracious nods to Oscar Wilde, Terry Pratchett and Mervyn Peake.

Reviewers: Jodel: Constance was born in August 1927, turning eleven just before she started Hogwarts in September 1938, so they're just starting their sixth year in the September of '43 and will graduate in June/July of 45. McGonagall's in the year above them, in Gryffindor obviously - she'll be coming into the story soon.

The Strange One – There might be… Lilith – For your pleasure, Severus may make a guest appearance in Part Four or thereabouts. Not that he'll be up to much.

The Serpentine Chain Part One

Chapter Nine – Distracting Riddles

After a particularly harrowing Thursday afternoon with Gryffindor and Slytherin first years, Quintus Snape was in need of urgent respite from students and their squabbles. Gathering up his papers, he set off for the staffroom, in search of an hour's peace before going to the Great Hall for supper. There were a few other members of staff in the room, drinking tea and talking quietly. Quintus, taking in the rather intense looking conversation between Octavius Malfoy and the Divination teacher, sank down into a soft chair beside a rather wan looking Christopher instead, and conjured himself a cup of tea with a brief swish of his wand. 

"Tired?" he asked his friend sympathetically.

Christopher Cale started, he hadn't noticed Quintus arrive. "Yes, a little," he replied. "It's been a long day."

"I know the feeling," the Potions master said. "I lost _eight_ cauldrons today. In one lesson," he added wryly. 

Christopher smiled faintly. Quintus, looking at him closely, was perturbed by the heaviness of his eyes. _Has he been crying?_

"Are you feeling all right?" he asked Cale, concerned.

The Chantwork teacher shrugged. "A slight headache, nothing important." He seemed to be about to say something more, but changed his mind.

Quintus was curious, but didn't press his friend. He turned his attention instead to the conversation between the Head of Slytherin and the Transfiguration professor, concerning a sixth year student's request for a Time Turner.

"The Ministry say that the decision has to be unanimous between Armando and yourself," de la Tour said quietly, "and the Head has already given me his consent."

The usual cheery twinkle in the Transfiguration professor's eyes faded. "I'm not entirely sure it would be wise," he said carefully.

"Which student is this?" asked Professor Seraphim, who'd been busy waxing the handle of his broomstick in the corner of the staffroom. An open copy of _Which Broomstick?_ lay at his feet, slightly crumpled.

Professor de la Tour glared at him. "I don't believe it's any of your concern," she said frostily.

"Well, you _are_ discussing it in a public place," the Head of Gryffindor pointed out. _True enough_, thought Quintus, amused at the irritated scowl on Nadine's face.

"Tom Riddle?" Octavius Malfoy guessed, suddenly breaking off his conversation with Elspeth Haven. "_This_ is the student?"

De la Tour nodded. "He's asked for more time in order to be able to carry out extra curricular study."

"In which areas?" asked Quintus, shrewdly. "Extra curricular study is rather a _vague_ term."

"Defence against the Dark Arts and Charms," the Head of Slytherin said. "Two of his best subjects."

  
"All subjects are his best subjects," the Potions master murmured. "Is he planning on specializing at long last?"

Christopher had glanced up at the mention of Tom Riddle. "He asked me yesterday if he could use the piano room for a few times a week," he said quietly. "He's self taught, I believe."

"And I'm giving him extra work in Divination during lunchtimes," Haven said thoughtfully. "When does he _sleep_?"

"He's a very dedicated student," Nadine de la Tour said proudly. "He's probably the most brilliant student Slytherin – Hogwarts, even – has ever known."

Dumbledore nodded. "I agree," he said gently. "But I don't think it wise for him to have the use of Time Turner. The dangers of stress and overwork are bad enough for NEWT students as it is – I find it likely that his health would end up severely damaged." 

Nadine de la Tour shrugged. "If he's any sort of Slytherin at all, he'd learn to cope."

"He would also be in danger of isolating himself from his peers – he seems to have little or no interest in life outside academic pursuits as it is," the Transfiguration professor mused.

"That's not a crime, is it?" demanded Professor Malfoy, who had been following the conversation avidly.

"I also find it exceedingly difficult to trust Mr. Riddle," Dumbledore continued calmly, as if he hadn't spoken.

Professor de la Tour looked annoyed. "Tom Riddle has a perfect academic record," she said coldly. "Unlike several students from _other_ Houses I could name, he has brought nothing but honour to the school."

Dumbledore was silent.

Octavius Malfoy leaned forwards. "If it wasn't for Mr. Riddle," he said sharply, "we'd all be sitting inside an Acromantula's belly by now feeling _really_ stupid."

"I have said, and will continue to say, that I do not believe Rubeus Hagrid had anything to do with the events of last year," Dumbledore said. Although his tone was mild, there was a steely glint in his eyes.

Malfoy was incredulous. "You'd take the word of a half-giant over one of our best students?" he asked. "A half-giant, who, may I add, was guilty of numerous infractions of school rules even before that girl died – a half-giant who should never have been allowed into Hogwarts in the first place –"

"Watch it, Malfoy," snapped Seraphim, without looking up from the Quidditch paraphernalia on the floor that had seemingly appeared from nowhere.

Octavius Malfoy sneered at him.

The Head of Slytherin was equally irate. "So you're going to refuse him the use of a Time Turner, then?" she snapped. "Because of your misguided belief in a _giant's_ innocence?"

"Is it because he's Gryffindor?" asked Malfoy, softly, eyes on Dumbledore. "And Riddle's not?"

Albus Dumbledore was unperturbed. "House prejudices are entirely irrelevant in this case," he said. "I cannot and _will not_ allow Tom Riddle the use of a Time Turner. He will simply have to learn his limitations."

Elspeth Haven smiled oddly. "I doubt he'll take kindly to that," she said.

  
The Transfiguration teacher produced a packet of crisps from a pocket in his voluminous robes, apparently oblivious to the waves of hostility emanating from Professors Malfoy and de la Tour. "Anyway," he said, "Mr. Riddle will have enough to concentrate on soon enough, without the distractions of extra curricular study."

"Oh?" asked the Head of Slytherin coldly.

"Professor Binns will be setting the NEWT students coursework in a week or so," Dumbledore said mildly. "The Headmaster and I have decided to carry out the plan we discussed last week."

There was a silence in the staffroom as the teachers paused to contemplate what the Deputy Head had just said. The large grandfather clock in the corner of the room broke the silence, whirring and grinding for a full moment before starting to strike the hour. Quintus Snape sipped his tea, watching the reactions of the other members of staff, and counted five chimes.

The Head of Slytherin was first. "Are you entirely sure that this is necessary?" asked Nadine de la Tour, her voice soft.

"The students have a right to know," replied Albus Dumbledore calmly. "The Headmaster and I are in agreement upon this matter."

"What matter?" asked Christopher, who had been staring out of the window, his mouth slack. Octavius Malfoy rolled his eyes. 

"As quick on the uptake as ever," he murmured, but nobody rose to the bait. 

It was the Divination teacher who replied, framed by the sunset from her vantage point by the staffroom window. "The Headmaster feels that Hogwarts students should be informed of the clear and present danger Grindelwald poses to the British wizarding community," she said, her tone cool. There was a barely discernible trace of irony in her voice.

"How?" asked the Flight instructor, raising his head from _Which Broomstick?_ Dumbledore offered him a crisp.

"We thought we'd put Binns to good use," Octavius Malfoy said acidly. "Merlin knows it's about time his lessons developed a purpose."

The teachers young enough to have experienced the History of Magic professor for themselves, grimaced, whilst Dumbledore appeared to have gone temporarily deaf.

"The Headmaster wants Professor Binns to base the sixth and seventh year assignments around the rise of Grindelwald and his methods," Elspeth Haven said, smoothing a stray strand of red hair back into her bun. "In the hope of informing them of the dangers without causing panic."

Malfoy smirked. "Professor Binns couldn't cause a panic if his life depended upon it."

"Good idea," Seraphim said, deliberately ignoring the Defence against the Dark Arts professor. "What do you think, Christopher?" 

The direct address startled his friend, Quintus noted, as Christopher's head jerked up from out of his hands. "What?" Cale said, his distraction evident.

"Has _anyone_ here _ever_ considered applying the concept of _paying attention_ to themselves?" Octavius Malfoy wondered loudly, causing Seraphim to scowl in his direction. "Professor Binns. Is Going To Teach. The Children. Things They Need To Know. About Grindelwald," he said slowly and deliberately to Cale, who was now looking decidedly unwell, Quintus thought.

"I don't think it's wise," de la Tour said, determinedly. "The Minister of Magic hasn't made any official announcement yet – what do you think his reaction will be when he hears we've started telling our students God knows what?"

Albus Dumbledore appeared unconcerned. "Copernicus will probably thank us for it," he said, auburn whiskers twitching. "And surely it's better for the students to hear proven, historical facts from us than the rumours they hear in the papers?"

"They'll get proven, historical facts with Binns all right," de la Tour said dryly. 

"Has anyone told Binns about this?" asked Seraphim suddenly. "He won't take kindly to his lesson plans being disrupted."

"But a significant number of our students _will_," murmured Elspeth Haven, meeting Malfoy's eyes with a slight smile.

"No doubt we'll see a significant decrease in the number of potential Aurors when they realize exactly what's involved," said Cale, with a bitterness unusual to him. 

Quintus chewed the inside of his lip, contemplating his friend. Something was bothering Christopher, and for once, it wasn't Octavius Malfoy. 

*

__

Everything circles back to music, eventually, Cale thought as he left the staffroom that Thursday evening. Like his magic, music was an essential part of him, running through his veins – yet unlike magic he'd inherited his talent from his parents. His father, a violinist in the London Philharmonic Orchestra, and his mother, an accomplished soprano, had encouraged Christopher and his older brother John to pursue musical interests from an early age. From his first tentative notes on the piano at the age of two to his first visit to Covent Garden aged seven, during which he'd sat wide eyed and captivated through Handel's _Messiah, _he'd been spellbound. He liked to think that even then, he'd sensed even then the magical possibilities inherent in melody. Discovering Chantwork during his time at Hogwarts not only appeased his parents, who'd wanted him to attend music school, but also gave him a way to reconcile his love for music with his equally strong interest in magic. _Music is the one form of magic that even Muggles can study, although they do not, perhaps, understand its full potential_, he'd read in his copy of _From Mozart To Malfoy: Music through the Ages_ during his very first lesson_. _He'd accepted it, then, making only a quick joke about it to Quintus.

__

"You'd think that Muggles could do Potions," he said incautiously, as Professor Minim, the grey haired Chantwork teacher of his schooldays scrawled runes over the blackboard. 

"I hope you're joking?" Quintus replied, eyeing his friend in cold disbelief. "I'd like to see the Muggles who could stomach skinning and preparing a Hydra in order to extract its essence," he said, with a touch of affronted pride.

"Well, it's just like cookery, isn't it?" Christopher said, teasing.

"Cookery?!" repeated the scandalized Quintus, eyes flashing dangerously. "I'd like to see you try whisking dragon eggs into a smooth blend, really I would. There may be no foolish wand waving in Potions, but it's a very subtle art!"

"I know, I know," Christopher said, trying to sooth his outraged friend's ruffled feathers. 

"I should have thought you'd have understood the complexities of Potions brewing," continued Quintus inexorably. "Bearing in mind the results of your last test."

Christopher winced, the scathing comments of Professor Curie still etched in his memory. He looked at the almost fanatical gleam in his friend's eye, and, deciding that insulting something that your best friend's family had been experts in for the past three centuries probably wasn't a wise course of action, went back to reading his book.

On Wednesday, though, he hadn't been so sure_. Perhaps Muggles understand music better than we do_, he'd thought, looking out of his window. Didn't the works of Beethoven, a man of no wizarding ability or family whatsoever, offer more passion, inspiration and consolation than those of any wizarding composer he'd ever studied during his post-Hogwarts study at the Conservatory of Music in London?

__

We may all need consolation soon enough, he'd thought with a sudden pang, eyeing the black trimmed envelope that lay unopened on his desk hatefully. He'd received the owl late on Tuesday night, knowing by the official seal on the envelope that it was from the Ministry, guessing, without opening it, what it contained. _We regret to inform you_…

He hadn't slept that night, lying wide-awake into the dark of Wednesday morning, the letter that he didn't want to open burning in his mind alongside thoughts of his brother. John Cale hadn't been as taken with music as the rest of the family. The first to receive the Hogwarts letter, he'd given up his viola lessons a few weeks before his first term. Sorted into Gryffindor, he'd concentrated on Defence against the Dark Arts and Charms, the more obvious types of magic perhaps. He'd chosen to become an Auror, after graduating. He'd been working abroad. _Killed? Missing in action?_

"Sir?"

Cale hadn't noticed the door opening. He hadn't heard the light, hesitant footsteps approaching. But the voice that broke into his thoughts was insistent, for all that the black haired boy's hands were tightly clasped before him.

"Yes – Riddle, is it?" Christopher asked, brushing the letter under a pile of essays. He would open it later. After the school day had finished. As Octavius Malfoy had been so kind as to remind him only the other day, he was being paid to do a job. Not to complain about his family problems, or send the whole school to sleep. Professionalism was paramount. _John said that in a letter, once. _

The tall slender boy nodded. "Tom Riddle, sir."

"Can I help you, Mr. Riddle?" Cale asked, indicating to him to sit down. Still, the distraction was welcome.

Riddle, a Slytherin judging by his robes, sat down, gripping his hands together very tightly. He looked nervous, something which did little to reassure Christopher. "I'm sorry to disturb you, sir," Riddle said, eyes glancing away then back to the Chantwork teacher. "I know I'm not one of your students – I would have taken Chantwork but I didn't have enough room in my timetable – but I was wondering if I could use the piano room for a few times a week?"

"You play?" Cale asked, surprised. Most Slytherin families tended to refuse their children contact with something that verged so closely to Muggle culture – chanting was one thing, but gratuitous, "useless" music with non magical instruments was entirely another. Even Melisandre Malfoy had been disinherited at one point during the 19th century. Then he remembered something he'd heard in the staffroom weeks ago – Tom Marvolo Riddle, although a Slytherin, was from a Muggle background, like himself. Or not, exactly like him. Christopher wasn't an orphan.

Riddle flushed. "Not very well, sir," he said. "I taught myself, mostly."

Christopher tactfully chose not to ask why the boy hadn't been given lessons. "I think there's a slot free on Thursday evenings," he said, looking at the appointment sheet he'd extracted from his desk drawer, "but no, Susanna Lessops swapped for that because of Quidditch practice, oh, there's no-one booked for tonight, but lunchtime might be more convenient, if you're a quick eater and don't want to sacrifice your evening –"

"Not lunchtime," Riddle interjected quietly, adding "I have extra Divination lessons during lunchtime, sir – can I come tonight?"

__

The boy should've been a Ravenclaw. Christopher had nodded, scribbling the boy's name down in the empty half past seven slot. "You'll have to pick up the piano key from me tonight," he said, "it's in my office otherwise I'd give it to you now."

"A key?" Riddle asked curiously. "Can't you lock it magically?"

Professor Cale shook his head. "Sadly, our piano hasn't adapted very well to magic in the atmosphere, let alone direct spells," he said, slipping unintentionally into his lecturing tone. "The slightest spell can disrupt the tuning of the strings, which is why we can't use Locking Spells."

"I thought wizarding pianos had Shielding Charms built in?" the Slytherin asked, a curious look in his eyes.

"It isn't a wizarding piano," Cale said simply. "I bought it in Muggle London."

Tom Riddle didn't pursue the subject, but turned up outside Cale's office that evening at seven twenty five precisely.

"Remember to lock the lid when you've finished," Cale said unnecessarily, "and just drop the key off here first thing tomorrow morning."

  
Riddle nodded. The strap of his bag was wrapped so tightly round his hands that his fingertips were white. He looked oddly tense.

Christopher Cale felt his mouth run away with him. Ridiculous how every Slytherin had that effect on him. "If you need any tuition – I learned the piano myself, originally, I'd be willing to help. I could manage an hour a week after Halloween, if you like?"

Tom Riddle relaxed slightly. "Thank you sir," he said, and set off in the direction of the Chantwork classroom.

Cale had watched him go. _He'd have been a credit to our House_, he thought ruefully, then turned back into his office, to where a black trimmed envelope still awaited him.

__

We regret to inform you…

*

History of Magic was undoubtedly the most boring subject that Hogwarts students had ever been forced to endure – with Herbology coming a close second, as Richard had once snapped after a painful encounter with a Bubotuber. By the time they'd reached their second year at Hogwarts, Aurelius and the others had resigned themselves to the fact that History of Magic was a complete waste of timetable space that could have been more appropriately – and enjoyably – filled with Curses, perhaps, or Voodoo. Camille and Remy, however, had only had a few weeks to adapt.

"It was _never_ this dull at Beauxbatons," Camille had sniffed during her first lesson, covering a delicate yawn with her hand. "Perhaps our country's history is simply more interesting than yours," she suggested, smiling to take the sting from her words.

"Depends who's teaching it," Paul Tudor had said dismally, head buried in his arms.

"I thought there were laws against necromancy," Remy mused, looking at the completely oblivious History of Magic professor without any real interest. "Even Grindelwald wouldn't have stooped low enough to dig _him_ up."

Paul raised his head and yawned hugely. "He's been here since the Founders," he said solemnly, watching a fly saunter casually along the sleeping Simon's cheek. "He will be forever."

"Dippet thinks we'll benefit from having a teacher who was present during the events of which we learn," Richard said sagely. "And I must say, for a walking corpse, he really brings the Yorkshire Goblin Revolts of 1489 to life. In my humble opinion, of course."

In fact, the walking corpse was merely a frail-looking old man who had apparently decided against applying the concept of retirement to himself. Professor Binns had started teaching at the age of forty-five – but nobody was quite sure exactly how long ago that was. He'd been well past middle age when he'd taught Julius Malfoy in the 1910s, and had resembled a shrivelled walnut for as long as Aurelius, Constance and the others had known him. His voice, wheezy and painfully monotonous, was a more potent soporific than any mere Sleeping Draught – Aurelius had briefly entertained the notion of bottling Binns' tongue and selling it on the black market, but had succumbed to sleep before perfecting the details of this nefarious plan. He did well enough out of his Pepperup Potion and Agitato Draughts instead, especially amongst the fifth and seventh years.

Certain depressed Ravenclaws had calculated that the chances of a lesson in which the pupils did not fall asleep in the first ten minutes were exactly a million to one. 

However, Richard, the resident Slytherin Arithmancy expert and optimist extraordinaire, had calculated that million to one chances crop up nine times out of ten. This theory was based upon the premise that most people were intelligent enough to create their own amusement in Binns' lessons. The almost legendary lesson in which Esme Weatherwax had cast an Untraceable Tap Dancing Jinx upon Binns' walking stick was proof that even the Hufflepuffs could do it.

The Slytherins generally preferred to use History of Magic as a free period, regarding Binns solely as a minor distraction. But as nobody really enjoyed catching up on the work afterwards, there were a variety of different Recording Spells in use throughout the lesson. Constance's set of DictaQuills, sent to her by her unusually sympathetic father, proved incredibly popular. With the Quills set for exactly an hour's copying, and Muting Charms cast to disguise the sound of their conversations, the Slytherins could pass a fairly leisurely lesson without having to concentrate at all. Even Tom Riddle, who'd patiently ploughed his way through as many lessons as he could without the use of a Quill, had given up, and sat reading a copy of _Transfiguration Today_ instead.

"Remind me to thank your father on bended knees next time I see him," Aurelius said, contentedly watching his Quill sweep across the scroll.

Paul, who was watching a spider crawl along his desk in mingled interest and disgust, nodded agreement. "If he ever needs me for anything, and I mean, _anything,_" he said with emphasis, "I'm his man."

Constance smirked. "I'll remember that, Tudor."

Simon Harper briefly stirred from his afternoon siesta to mumble a quick "Yeah, cheers, thanks a lot," before falling back into a languid torpor. 

"No problem," Constance said to them all. "My father understands our pain, for was it not once his own?"

"If he ever wants a papal blessing, indulgence, or pardon, consider it done," Richard said gallantly. "He's freed us from purgatory, it's only fair to return the favour."

Constance looked at him blankly. "A what?"

It was Tom Riddle who answered, looking up from his paper. "A papal blessing comes from the Pope, the head of the Roman Catholic Church. It's a Muggle religion," he added dismissively.

"I didn't know you did Muggle Studies, Marlowe," Paul exclaimed, eyes bright with malicious glee. "Didn't think you had it in you!"

"He doesn't," Constance said, noticing an almost imperceptible tremor in Riddle's hands as he turned the page of his paper. "He just likes to exhibit his vast, and may I say, entirely _useless_, knowledge of both magical and non-magical trivia."

Richard bowed his head. "I can't help myself," he admitted. "My mind, brilliant though it undoubtedly is, is indeed a receptacle for all sorts of useless knowledge. Sadly I have yet to attain the levels of triviality that our own Constance has achieved, but one step at a time, eh?"

"Excuse me?" said Constance, smiling. "I am proud to say I know nothing of Muggle religions. Obviously, Marlowe, our social circles have been vastly different."

"You got that from Salazar Slytherin's Compendium of Comebacks, didn't you?" Paul accused.

She ignored him, and continued in a tone of profound solemnity. "My mind contains no trivia. I am a vessel for wisdom and knowledge."

"Oh?" asked Richard, grinning wickedly. "When's Heathcliffe Lockhart's birthday, again? It seems to have slipped my mind, but I'm sure I can rely on _you_, my dear."

Aurelius joined in. "What did he foresee happening at the end of last year?"

"True love, wasn't it?" Paul asked, enjoying the scowl on Constance's face.

"Pity he didn't manage to foresee those sexual harassment charges," Richard sniggered.

"Nothing was ever proved," Aurelius said, smirking. "And you can't blame the poor girls for trying."

Tom Riddle had given up trying to read, and had begun to fold his paper into strange geometric shapes, listening expressionlessly to their conversation. 

"_Somebody here will not be here next year_ – too right," continued Paul. "Thank Merlin it was _him_."

Constance glared. "Explain how your simple expressions of gratitude towards me and mine degenerated into cheap remarks about our failed Divination professor. Please."

"Can't," Richard said sweetly. "But we're just trying to help you out here, we don't mean anything by it."

"What do you mean, help me out?" she demanded.

"You should've gotten over him by now," Paul said paternally. "It's been a couple of months. It's for your own good, this is."

She stared at them. "You're all demented."

"You know, I don't understand why you get so worked up about it, Con dear," Richard puzzles. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much."

"After all the stuff you've been spouting about female rights recently, I thought you'd have hit the roof with all Lockhart's Virgo comments," Aurelius said innocently.

"That's _enough_!" exclaimed Constance, loud enough to penetrate the Muting Charm. Professor Binns cast a stern glance in their direction, and continued to expound upon the early sixteenth century Wizarding Renaissance. Tom Riddle paused, and, chewing his lip, carefully readjusted a corner of his paper creation, then carried on folding. 

"Touched a nerve?" asked Paul, sympathetically.

"Four against one is _not _fair," Constance said.

"Three," Tom pointed out, quietly. 

"Three, but I'm still outnumbered," Constance amended.

"According to Salazar Slytherin's Code of Conduct," Aurelius said, in a passable imitation of Professor Binns, "three against one is only unfair when the majority of participants are Gryffindors. Of course, that's because one Slytherin could take out up to five Gryffindors, so it's actually unfair on them, but that's beside the point."

"And as none of us are Gryffindors," Paul added, smirking, "it's game on!"

"You invented Salazar Slytherin's Code of Conduct," Constance said irritably. "And the Compendium of Comebacks, for that matter."

"And the Regulations for Ripostes, if you want to be really picky," Paul said proudly. "Although Aurelius and Richard contributed to that one."

Constance scowled. "Salazar would be turning in his grave," she said. "Now shut up and just remember who's responsible for those lovely DictaQuills which are even now scribbling away before your very eyes."

This reminder of the supposed existence of a lesson proved timely. Professor Binns' voice, which had been relegated to the status of background noise, suddenly cut through the chatter. "Before you go," he wheezed, "I'd like to remind you that this assignment will be worth 15 percent of your final mark, so I'd appreciate it if you managed a little more than your usual half baked attempt. Eight feet minimum!"

"Assignment?" whispered Richard, horrified. "_What_ assignment?"

"You have until New Year to complete it, and I will of course be available to help with any problems you may have," said Binns, levering himself out of the chair with the aid of his stick. His joints popped audibly. "Although you'll have to check the details of the minor subject with your other teachers."

"_What_ minor subject?" Paul said, eyes wide.

"The Quills have copied everything down," Tom informed them, calmly scanning his scroll. His DictaQuill had imitated his neat, precise handwriting perfectly. "Professor Binns mentioned it last week, anyway."

"Not that anyone other than you was paying attention," Richard muttered. He rolled up his scroll without bothering to read it. "It can wait 'til the weekend, I'm sure."

"Even reading the transcript's bloody boring," Paul noted, picking up his work. "It's not fair."

As Professor Binns limped out of the classroom, there was a palpable change in the noise level due to various Muting Charms being removed. 

"Ahh, my leg's gone dead," Richard announced, trying to stand up. He prodded the slumbering Simon sharply in the side with his quill. "I just thought you'd all like to know."

"Delighted, honestly," Constance murmured, watching Tom sweep all his belongings into his bag in a smooth, fluid gesture. On his desk, his _Transfiguration Times_ was transformed into an angular swan, stark and austere in form. "What do we have next? My mind's gone blank."

"And that's different from its normal state in what way?" asked Aurelius, kicking his chair under the desk and scowling as it collided with the table leg. "Lunch. _Food_. Let us depart." 

And with that, he headed out of the door, followed by Richard. Simon, disorientated by his rude awakening, was still sitting, rubbing sleep from his eyes, whilst Paul made his way over to where the French students, the Twins and Teresa were huddled over the desk at the back of the classroom, frowning at their scrolls. Constance began to bundle her things into her bag, absentmindedly.

"Planning on staying?" Tom's low, pleasant voice made her jump. He'd left his desk and was standing by her shoulder. His bag, somehow remaining intact despite being crammed with an obscene amount of books, was slung across one shoulder, and he was playing with the strap. His wand protruded from a pocket of his robes, which, she realized, were rather shabby. _Second hand._ She became conscious of her own, perfectly tailored robes at approximately the same time she realized that she was staring. He'd raised his chin slightly, aware of her scrutiny, but didn't say anything.

"Just putting my things away," she said, snapping out of her reverie. Then, on an impulse – "Walk with me?"

The tall boy glanced over to where the other Slytherins still lingered, then nodded, fingers twined around the strap of his bag. His silver prefect's badge glinted as they walked out of the classroom. As he paused to allow her through the door, she noticed the little paper swan peeping out from beneath the flap of his bag.

"That'll get squashed," she said in dismay. 

He turned to her, momentarily puzzled. "It's only paper, nothing valuable" he pointed out, but he carefully took the swan from his bag. 

"Where did you learn how to do that?" Constance asked, taking the folded bird as he offered it to her. "I didn't know you were artistic as well. By all that's versatile, you scare me!" she said, laughing.

"I'm not artistic at all," he said dryly. "It's only folding, and I was only taught to do swans."

"At Hogwarts?" asked Constance, curious. To the best of her knowledge, Tom had never talked about his life away from the school before. Then again, Muggle orphanages weren't exactly hot topics amongst Slytherins.

He was no more forthcoming on the subject today. "Not at Hogwarts," he said, so blandly that she knew that that particular topic was closed.

Constance changed the subject. "I've never seen you pay so little attention in class before," she said smiling. "Are you planning a belated teenage rebellion?"

"It may look as though Binns has defeated me," the prefect said, "but you should never judge by appearances. I'm working as hard as ever."

"Going for Head Boy?" she asked.

He shrugged elegantly.

"You've probably got the best qualifications in the school," she said. "Never in trouble, top marks, oh, and the minor detail of having saved us all from a killer spider."

His turquoise eyes flickered downwards. "Not all," he said. "That girl –"

" – was a complete pain in the neck, to be brutally honest," Constance said callously. "She's not exactly gone forever, either, seeing as she's now haunting the toilets, of all places. It's really off-putting."

Tom smiled, but his eyes did not. Then he said, "Do_ you_ know what Binns' assignment's about?" 

"I've got it written down, but I haven't read it yet," she admitted, accepting the change in subject. "Tell me, then."

"Grindelwald," Tom said casually, causing her to stop dead in her tracks. "We have to research one of several aspects in his career – his use of Prohibited Charms and Curses, his exploitation of magical creatures both Dark and otherwise, his search for visionweavers and use of Seers, or we can study the Defence aspect, and the early Albanian Crime Squad attempts to quell him."

Constance was taken aback. "But that's actually – _interesting_," she said finally. "And important. And, unlike anything we've ever learned from Binns before – _relevant_."

Tom nodded. "I doubt Professor Binns was the one responsible."

"Oh?" 

"I think Dippet told him to assign us something like that. And I expect Dumbledore suggested it to him," Tom said thoughtfully. "Bearing in mind he likes us to be kept informed."

"He thinks we'll need to know this?" Constance mused. "Soon?"

Tom shrugged.

A third year Hufflepuff, not looking where she was going, bumped into Constance as she was about to say more, and almost knocked her against the wall. The younger girl's eyes went as round as saucers when she took in the Slytherin girl's irritated glare. 

"S-sorry," mumbled the Hufflepuff, backing away. "Please, no, I don't want to be a newt –"

"A newt?!" Constance said incredulously as the Hufflepuff – Louise Crabbe, she remembered – ran off to the relative safety of a classroom. "I don't want to be a newt?" she repeated. "And people call _me_ insane – what a fruit loop!"

Tom glanced at her, smiling sideways. "You've only got yourself to blame for your reputation," he said. "Your bout with Coombes didn't go unnoticed."

"Tell me something I didn't know," Constance said, frowning at the partially battered swan she was still holding. "I'm still doing the detentions."

Tom took the swan off her, and began to refold it. "Serves you right for getting caught," he said, rounding a corner abruptly. "Exhibitionist."

She controlled the impulse to scowl at his back and smiled benignly as he turned to let her catch up. "I am what I am," she said. "I can't help my insane streak of violence. Or violent streak of insanity. Whatever. Why fight nature?"

"Why indeed," murmured Tom. He offered her the swan, half-smiling. 

As she took it, a thought struck her. "_You've_ never been caught dueling, or fighting with anyone, have you?" she asked, already knowing the answer. Her companion had a perfect academic record, top grades, and had never received so much as a detention. With teachers like Seraphim around, that was quite an achievement.

"You know I haven't," he replied, giving her a close look.

"Is that because you've never dueled, or is it because you're too clever to be caught?" she asked, suddenly very curious about her brother's quiet friend. "I know Marcus had that unfortunate little incident last year – and most of us sixth years are at it constantly, it's why hardly any of us were made prefects –"

"Little incident?" Tom repeated, amused. "If I remember rightly, Verity Black was in the hospital wing for three weeks."

"Marcus' finest hour," Constance sighed proudly. "And you didn't answer my question."

Riddle was silent momentarily as the two students headed down a narrow flight of stone steps. He was chewing his lip again, as though thinking deeply. She turned the swan over in her hands, surprised by its lightness.

"I have never used my wand to hurt a student," he said, then added, smiling, "and I haven't poisoned any either, if that's what you were wondering."

Constance laughed, although she was fully aware of the evasion in his answer. It was, in truth, none of her business, and he did not owe her an answer, but she was very much intrigued by the possibilities. "Would you?" she asked, pausing at the foot of the stairs. "Not just students, anyway. Would you? If you had the chance?"

Tom wasn't looking at her, but at the picture above her. Salazar Slytherin stared back, a striking solitary figure amongst the other founders. Seated at a round table, he was not playing the card game that engrossed the others. His green eyes were inscrutable in their regard. Constance turned back to Tom.

His answer was very soft. Afterwards, she too turned to the painting.

*


	10. Testing The Waters

Disclaimer: JK Rowling obviously. Direct quote from PoA regarding the Patronus, too. Eloquent thanks to Christopher Marlowe, William Shakespeare, The Smiths + Morrissey, The Labyrinth, Mervyn Peake (again), Velvet Goldmine, Guy Gavriel Kay & Pink Floyd. Oh, and Ian Serraillier for a line from "The Silver Sword", adapted by me for my horrid Slythly purposes.

Author's Note: Halloween, which was _supposed_ to have happened in chapter eight, is now happening in chapter eleven. I swear, this story gets bigger every time I think about it. Ten points to Minerva McTabby for spotting the Wilde quote, and another five for pointing out the Versatile Line that I so _sneakily_ borrowed from Gormenghast.

The Serpentine Chain Part One

Chapter Ten – Testing the Waters

The Three Broomsticks was crowded, warm and full of smoke. Quintus Snape, Christopher Cale and Matthew Seraphim were sitting at a small table by the fireplace, right at the back of the room. Seraphim had suggested the trip as a means to cheering Christopher up - although Quintus wasn't particularly fond of the head of Gryffindor, he'd agreed to go along for his friend's sake. Although it was very close to Halloween, it wasn't an official Hogsmeade weekend. Only seventh year students were allowed out, and he'd seen quite a few on the way to the inn, earlier. In varying states of intoxication, too, he'd noted. Gilly Grey, the landlady and sister of the Head of Ravenclaw – a fact that various opportunistic Ravenclaws were eager to exploit – smiled at the teachers cheerfully as she served a bunch of surly looking trolls at the bar. _Not much of a family resemblance,_ Quintus thought, as he did every time he was in the tiny inn. Lydia Grey was serious minded, scholarly and intense – the stereotypical Ravenclaw – but Gilly was extroverted, very talkative, and _exceedingly_ generous with the vodka after closing time. The last was a quality that Quintus Snape personally appreciated, even if it meant putting up with an assault on his ears for several hours.

"Shall I get the drinks?" he asked as he stood up. "The usual?"

The head of Gryffindor nodded, but Christopher shook his head. "Smirnoff," he said, and, in response to Quintus' raised eyebrow, "I haven't been properly drunk for _ages_ and the urge is upon me."

Quintus headed to the bar, jingling the coins in his hand. Whilst Gilly whittered on about some incident involving a hag, a banshee and a really frightened werewolf, his thoughts were elsewhere. It had only taken a few gentle prompts from him to get Christopher talking some days earlier – in the quiet, undemanding atmosphere of his office, he'd told the Potions master about the letter from the Ministry, about how he'd left the letter unopened for over a day not daring to open it, about his brother who'd been declared missing in action, about the long letter he'd written to his parents and then ripped up, about their total incomprehension of what John's job had actually entailed –

Wordlessly, Quintus had passed him a cup of Earl Grey tea, and Cale had wrapped both his hands around it, watching the steam drift upwards. He looked exhausted, and the Potions master toyed with the idea of offering him a Sleeping Draught.

"I didn't sleep last night," Christopher had confessed when asked, but rejected Quintus' offer apologetically, claiming that a cup of hot milk and cinnamon would do the trick.

"A Muggle substitute for the Sleeping Draught?" Quintus asked, smiling. "Something I should know about?"

Christopher shrugged, sipping his tea. "I just like milk," he said, wincing as the hot liquid scalded his tongue. There was a vagueness in his eyes that worried the Potions master, but he was unsure of what to do about it. Quintus had had little experience in dealing with emotions, intense or otherwise – he dealt with people on an intellectual basis. But there wasn't anything intellectual about death.

As he'd watched his friend drink, Quintus had been uncomfortably aware of an awkward thought at the back of his mind. According to Christopher, John Cale had been working undercover in Northern Europe for several months before his "disappearance" a fortnight ago. Quintus wasn't sure, but it was possible – probable, even – that John Cale had been one of the three dead Aurors who'd been discovered in Belgium. The details of what had happened to the dead Aurors were classified information - Quintus hadn't expected the Ministry to tell even the close relatives of the victims what had happened, the effects of the Nox Mirabilis being rather unpleasant. He would make inquiries; to find out whether John Cale had indeed been one of the unlucky Aurors, but whether or not he would tell Christopher was another matter_. Perhaps he'd be better off not knowing_, Quintus had thought, looking at his friend's drawn face. _No comfort to grieving families_, he thought. Although his own memories of John Cale weren't especially fond – he'd found Christopher's brother annoyingly overwhelming at times – it wasn't a death he would have wished on him. _Or anyone_, he thought, remembering the batch of the self-same potion he'd recently brewed with Aurelius. Not for the first time, he wondered whether his cousin's apparent indifference was truly feigned. He could never tell, with Aurelius. He'd never been very close to his cousin, and getting a straight answer out of him, without evasions, would be well nigh impossible. Something Quintus regretted. But nothing he could do about it, now.

Returning to the present, he paid for the drinks and returned to their table, skillfully extricating himself from the clutches of an over friendly hag as he did so. Christopher was staring into the fire, apparently lost in thought, and didn't look up when Quintus placed his drink before him. He exchanged glances with Seraphim, who shrugged helplessly.

"Gilly's put the prices up," Snape said conversationally, when it became apparent that Christopher wasn't going to snap out of his thoughts any time soon. Christopher didn't respond, so he added "Blamed it on the war," for good measure.

The mention of the war was enough to drag the Chantwork teacher's eyes away from the quietly crackling flames. Cale visibly roused himself, and turned to his friends. "Oh," he said. 

It was better than nothing, Quintus supposed. He was watching his friend closely. "It's not just alcohol either – the prices for some of the most basic potions ingredients have skyrocketed. Armando Dippet almost had a heart attack when I told him we'd have to rearrange the budget."

This drew another "Oh" from Christopher, who, noticing his glass, drained it swiftly, in one. Then he coughed, his face contorted in disgust. "I always forget how revolting this stuff is."

"An acquired taste, I think," Quintus mused. 

"And you've never been much of a drinker," Matthew Seraphim pointed out.

This drew a smile from Cale. "You can say that again," he said wryly. "I still have very painful memories of our last year."

Quintus snickered. "So you should," he said. "Lightweight."

"I was a good child," Christopher said, smiling into his empty glass. "_You_ were an alkie."

The Potions master feigned affront. "I grew up surrounded by most potent substances, I'll have you know – and unlike _some_, I never passed out after a glass and a half of cheap red wine."

"Two glasses," Christopher corrected him. "And I didn't pass out. I just had to rest my eyes for a while."

"I've heard better excuses from my first years," the Potions master smirked. 

Matthew Seraphim grinned. "There is _one_ good point about your complete inability to handle alcohol."

"I'm a cheap night out, I know," Christopher said. His smile had gone. "Three more of these and you two'll have to carry me back to Hogwarts."

"I'm not as young as I used to be," Seraphim protested, trying to lighten his friend's mood somewhat. "My ageing muscles can't take your weight like they used to."

Christopher shook his head. "Your muscles couldn't take the weight of a Cleansweep Thirty, let alone mine, you limp wristed liberal," he said, imitating Octavius Malfoy's sneering manner. 

__

He'd seen it often enough to do a good job of it, too, Quintus thought. Although he himself was on fairly good terms with the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher, who'd taught both him and Christopher during their last year at Hogwarts, he grinned. "Limp wristed liberal?" he asked, curiously.

"Oh," Matthew replied. "Christopher and I were talking about the child who was expelled from the Zurich Institute last year – and Malfoy overheard." His voice was decidedly bitter as he mentioned the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher.

"Last year – that'd be the child who got bitten by a werewolf?" Quintus said. "The year before she was due to graduate?"

Christopher nodded. "She was expelled as soon as the Institute Governors found out," he said. "Malfoy – I _can't_ think of him as Octavius – wasn't impressed with us for saying it was unfair treatment."

Quintus eyed his friend closely. "Werewolves _are _Dark creatures," he pointed out.

"They could've arranged something," Seraphim interjected. "So she wouldn't have to leave school without qualifications."

The Potions master shrugged, suppressing a brief flicker of irritation. "Not many people want their children studying with werewolves," he said. "I can see Octavius' point."

"After the things _he's_ supposed to have got up to, though, it's a bit hypocritical –"

"What do you mean?" Quintus said sharply.

"He didn't exactly keep the best company himself when he was younger," Seraphim said sanctimoniously. "Werewolves were probably the least _sordid_ of the creatures he mixed with."

Quintus smiled knowingly. "Oh," he said, "I take it you've heard about his experiences at the Dark Side of the Moon?"

Based in Knockturn Alley, the Dark Side of the Moon inn was run by a pair of Veela who'd moved to England in the 1920s. It aimed to teach customers the _finer _techniques of the arts of love. Apart from the Veela and various well trained witches and wizards, there were several vampires working there as well. There'd been some controversy a while back over the validity of their work visas – but illegal or no, Transylvanian immigrants had certainly ensured high profile publicity. The Minister of Magic's wife, Cupid Copernicus, was rumoured to be one of the inn's patrons – something that had had the weekly magazines filled with wild speculation regarding the Minister's sex life. Although Quintus hadn't been himself, he'd heard glowing reports of it from Amelia Bloom and the Care of Magical Creatures teacher, Terry Boot, of all people. And the state of _their_ sex life really wasn't something he wanted to picture. But it had been Heathcliffe Lockhart who'd shed the light on that area of Octavius' life last year, during a very drunken staff night out at the Hog's Head last Christmas – something that most definitely did _not_ endear him to the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher. In fact, Octavius had threatened to sever a vital part of Lockhart's anatomy with a rusty spoon if he even so much as _breathed_ in his direction again. The then Divination teacher had suddenly remembered a prior engagement with his crystal balls, and had escaped back to the castle.

"We may have heard something mentioned along those lines," Cale said, as he carefully tore a beer mat into neat squares. The absentmindedness of a few minutes earlier had been replaced with intense amusement. "I'd never have thought he had it in him, myself."

"You innocent soul – Octavius is quite the lady-killer, apparently," the Potions master said, amused. "Last of the famous international playboys, and all that."

"You can't kill the undead," Seraphim said, his mind obviously on the inn's Transylvanian concubines. "Unless you stake them."

"Well, he certainly _staked_ them well and good," Quintus said, his lip curling. "Or so they say. I've never asked him about it myself, and I wouldn't recommend it."_ Unless you want hexing so hard that you can never sit on a broomstick again_, he added mentally. 

"You think Malfoy's sex life interests me _that_ much?" Seraphim scowled. 

Christopher grimaced. "I've seen him tetchy often enough," he said ruefully. "I don't care to repeat the experience if I can help it."

"Then change the subject," the Potions master said, looking towards the door of the inn, through which the object of their discussion had just entered, along with Elspeth Haven. "And one of you can get the drinks in whilst you're at it." 

"_They've_ been very close recently," Seraphim pondered aloud. There was a curiously intent look on his face. "They were at school together, too."

"Before our time," Christopher said dismissively. He and Quintus were the youngest members of staff on the Hogwarts faculty – Octavius Malfoy and Elspeth Haven had graduated before the two Ravenclaws had even turned ten. "I'll get this round," he added, getting up. 

Quintus watched as his friend made his way over to the bar. He wasn't especially delighted at being left alone with Matthew Seraphim – small talk and Quidditch were two things that he'd never fully mastered. Two things he'd never _wanted_ to master, either. He'd never been able to stand heights and had still been barely been able to stay on his broom when he'd finished his NEWTs. Unlike Quintus, the Muggle-born Christopher had been very good at flying. He'd been the Ravenclaw Seeker for several years, and had been partly responsible for their House winning the Quidditch Cup for three years in a row. To the annoyance of both Slytherin and Gryffindor, of course. They were the two Houses that took Quidditch _personally_ – for Ravenclaws, the sport was simply a sport, and the Hufflepuffs never seemed to take any notice of the traditional House rivalries, preferring to go about their own business. It was as if they existed in a world of their own.

"So," Seraphim said. He was as ill at ease as Quintus, but showed it more, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He was looking at Octavius Malfoy as he continued. "It's not looking good in Europe, is it? I'm surprised the Ministry aren't doing more."

"Copernicus has his career to consider," Quintus said, pensively. _And he's doing more than you think._

"There are – rumours," the head of Gryffindor said, watching as Octavius Malfoy said something to the Divination teacher, who laughed. "They say Grindelwald's turning his attention to us next – we could end up like Beauxbatons."

"You think we have members of the Dark League on our staff?" Quintus asked, his voice laced with sarcasm. He knew Seraphim hated Malfoy, but _really_ – he could try keeping his suspicions to himself. Unless he had proof, in which case whining about it to a simple Potions master wasn't the most effective response. _But I'm not just a simple Potions master, am I? _To dispel his feeling of disquiet, he added, "I'm sure Dippet knows what he's doing - and Dumbledore, of course, is certainly very much in control."

"I expect that's what people thought about Mademoiselle Jeury," Matthew Seraphim said somberly. "And now, of course, it's too late."

There were Ravenclaws who liked Slytherins, Ravenclaws who preferred Gryffindors, and Ravenclaws who favoured the Hufflepuffs. Quintus _definitely_ preferred the company of snakes. More subtlety. And less _noise_.

As Christopher returned with a tray of drinks, the Divination teacher and Octavius Malfoy made their way towards them. There were no spare tables, and so, at a nod from Quintus, the two ex-Slytherins joined them. Elspeth Haven, whom he hardly knew, nodded politely as she sat down beside Quintus, whereas Octavius Malfoy sank smoothly into the chair beside Matthew Seraphim – much to the Flight instructor's disgust. _And people call Slytherins prejudiced_, Quintus thought, watching as the Head of Gryffindor's scowl deepened. Octavius Malfoy had noticed it too, and there was a decidedly vindictive glint in his eyes as his lip curled in what was presumably a greeting.

Deliberately turning away from the newcomers, Matthew Seraphim began to regale Christopher with an analysis of the tactics used by the Chudley Cannons in their latest match against the Teignmouth Terrors. Apparently the Cannons supporters had made use of some sort of chant, in order to disconcert their opponents, and the two teachers began to link this with some Muggle sport named football. Yet another sport Quintus knew nothing about.

"Whilst the children chatter," Octavius Malfoy said, too softly for the two Quidditch fanatics to hear, but loud enough for Quintus and the Divination teacher, "the _adults_ can converse."

Quintus raised an eyebrow. "About what, may I ask?"

Elspeth Haven picked a speck of invisible dirt off her perfectly pressed emerald green robes. "Cabbages and kings," she said, smiling. 

Quintus raised his other eyebrow. "Stimulating conversation, I see. Perhaps I _should_ have tried harder at Quidditch."

"Not wishing to disparage your – _friend's_ – accomplishments," the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher said archly, glancing towards Christopher Cale, "but your potential, as you well know, would have been wasted on Quidditch."

"An overrated sport, at best," added the red haired woman, her voice low and amused.

"Then it's probably fortunate I never managed to fly higher than ten feet," Quintus said dryly.

"Indeed, the Hogwarts faculty has been greatly enriched by your inability," Octavius Malfoy said. "Potions academics should be eternally grateful for your complete and utter uselessness on a broomstick."

"How like a Malfoy to mix a compliment with an insult," Quintus observed. "I don't know whether to be flattered or offended."

The Defence against the Dark Arts teacher smiled lazily. "Which would you prefer?" he asked.

"Flattery works best in most cases," Elspeth Haven pointed out. "Compliment him on his amazing stirring techniques, Octavius."

"I thought I'd start with his truly masterly handling of the pestle and mortar first," Octavius Malfoy said, smirking. "Which works for _you_, Quintus?"

"It depends on the reaction you want to elicit," Quintus said, adopting a scholarly air. "Flattery will get you everywhere."

"Oh?" asked the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher, looking at Quintus sideways, through slanted eyes. The Potions master was suddenly reminded that Octavius Malfoy's interests weren't, and never had been confined solely to the opposite sex. Elspeth Haven cleared her throat, and Quintus realized that he'd taken too long in replying.

"Except into my private stores," Quintus amended hastily. "I haven't trusted your lot since the Lestrange twins stole a rather large amount of Boomslang skin."

Octavius smirked. "In Slytherin, we call that _borrowing_."

"What did they _do_ with the Boomslang skin?" Elspeth Haven asked curiously. 

Quintus inspected his fingernails casually. "Brewed a rather bad batch of Polyjuice Potion and tried to impersonate the Hufflepuff Beaters, I believe. I found the poor quality of their potion far more distressing than the crime, of course." 

The Divination teacher laughed softly. "Of course you did."

"Though it _was_ a terrible, heinous crime," Octavius Malfoy added, his voice silky with sarcasm. "Those _poor_ Hufflepuffs were traumatized when the potion wore off halfway through the match."

Quintus smiled. "It reflects very badly on my teaching skills," he said, "when a student's potion goes publicly wrong. Even though I still maintain that certain students shouldn't be allowed near a cauldron, let alone a copy of _Moste Potente Potions, _even if the fate of the wizarding world depended upon it."

"Not all students were given that book as bedtime reading," Malfoy said as he sipped his drink, which, under Quintus' well-trained scrutiny, turned out to be merely Butterbeer. "You must admit, your family has a certain advantage."

Quintus conceded the point. "We have had several centuries experience, I agree," he said. "But I'll still never understand how some students manage to melt their cauldrons simply by _looking_ at them."

The red haired Divination teacher had turned away from the two men, to where Seraphim and Cale were earnestly discussing the Slytherin team's new Seeker. Caroline Higgs, a second year, had only been given the chance on the team due to Aurelius Snape's decision to withdraw – something that had made Seraphim much happier about his own team's chances. Higgs was, however, shaping up to be a very good replacement. Although not a patch on the Gryffindor Seeker, of course, Seraphim said with satisfaction.

"Some have the skill, some don't," the daughter of Erasmus Haven the Seer said, turning back to Quintus and Octavius. "Certain talents run in the family. It's in the blood, so to speak."

"And your cousin's certainly no exception to the rule," Octavius said, meeting Quintus' level gaze directly. "Advanced theoretical study, and all."

"Indeed," Quintus said, keeping his voice carefully neutral. "He _is_ the Snape heir, after all." _And dealing with Aurelius certainly has its advantages_, he thought. _You should always have a Slytherin in the family. Or two, _he thought, remembering that Aurelius' father, his uncle, was also a Slytherin. _Perfect for practicing your poker face._

"Of course," Octavius Malfoy said, not looking away. His grey eyes were unreadable. "And you're the next in line."

Quintus nodded, wondering what point the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher was trying to make. "Until Aurelius marries, yes," he said. "His children will take precedence over me then."

"But _you're_ happier teaching, aren't you?" Elspeth Haven asked, swirling the amber liquid in her glass. "I have no ambitions," Quintus said, his tone dry. "Teaching suits me perfectly."

Octavius Malfoy's eyes flickered at the Potions master's barbed comment, and Quintus smiled inwardly. "_That_ is evident," the wayward Malfoy said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "One would almost think you'd been conceived in a classroom cauldron."

Matthew Seraphim, who seemed to have drawn a conclusion to his conversation with Christopher, interrupted. "_Your_ teaching skills aren't too bad though, are they Malfoy?" he asked meaningfully.

Octavius Malfoy smirked. "I do my best for _all_ my students," he said, placing a slight emphasis on his words.

"And a more impartial, _fair-minded_ teacher I'm sure they've never had," Seraphim continued, watching Octavius Malfoy avidly. "Qualities I'm sure _all_ your students appreciate."

Quintus could guess what Seraphim was getting at – it wasn't hard, bearing in mind the head of Gryffindor's complete inability to master _any_ form of subtlety. He'd heard of the clash between the Slytherin and Gryffindor sixth years from Aurelius, although he was perfectly aware that his cousin had watered down his version of events somewhat. Aurelius had carefully avoided mentioning Constance Malfoy's use of the Tremens hex, for starters. He'd heard about _that_ from the enraged Seraphim in the staffroom one evening – as well as the details of Octavius Malfoy's subsequent rescue of his errant niece. Quintus, however, suspected that Seraphim had modified his story as well – it was highly unlikely that the Flight instructor had been as civil and calm during his encounter with the two Malfoys as he'd made out. Seraphim wasn't particularly good at controlling himself. Not where Slytherins – and Malfoys in particular – were involved. Then again, Aurelius had said Constance got off pretty lightly, so perhaps Seraphim had learned some restraint. The Potions master wasn't sure why Seraphim was so bitter where the Malfoy family were concerned, and wasn't especially interested, either. 

If the head of Gryffindor had been hoping for a reaction from the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher, he was to be disappointed. Although his eyes narrowed slightly, Octavius simply smiled. An unpleasant smile, but still a smile. "You're too kind," Malfoy replied.

"With some students you don't need to try too hard, I suppose," Seraphim continued. "Whereas others might need special help."

"Some students just need a push in the right direction," Octavius Malfoy corrected him, his voice dripping acid. "A shame to let potential go to waste, wouldn't you say?"

Christopher looked nervously from Matthew to Octavius, obviously hoping that there would be no direct confrontation between the two. The Divination teacher seemed to share his sentiments exactly. Leaning forward slightly, she placed a restraining hand on Octavius' arm.

"Speaking of potential," she said to her blonde friend, "I wonder if you'd be willing to give your niece a push in the right direction for me."

The Defence against the Dark Arts teacher turned away from Seraphim, albeit reluctantly. "Constance?" he asked, unnecessarily. "How so?"

Elspeth Have smoothed an errant strand of red hair back into place. "The sixth years are starting their History of Magic assignments, are they not?"

"You think she should take Divination?" Octavius mused. "And you want me to exert my avuncular influence upon her?"

"I thought you'd been doing enough of that already," Seraphim sniped, and was instantly hushed by Christopher. 

"Come to the bar with me," Cale said, "you can help me carry the drinks back. Same again?" he asked the group. A series of nods answered him, and the two men headed towards the bar.

Octavius Malfoy hadn't taken his gaze from the Divination teacher, who nodded slowly. Quintus, watching, wondered at the relationship between the two Slytherin alumni. Familiarity, and something else. 

"You haven't Tested them yet, surely?" queried the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher. 

"Not yet," Elspeth Haven said, calmly. "I do, however, have a hunch."

"You know I don't like hunches," Octavius Malfoy jibed, but there was no malice in his voice as he addressed the woman. "I like them even less when they are yours."

Elspeth Haven said nothing, but waited.

"But I shall obey you, never fear," the tall blonde man said, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Don't I _always_?"

The Divination teacher smiled, her eyes sparkling in the half-light of the smoke filled room.

*

Aurelius was not surprised to find the library almost deserted – it was nine thirty on a Sunday morning. Only two or three seventh years were present, bent forlornly over spidery notes and large, uncompromising piles of books. Aurelius looked at them without sympathy, doubting whether they'd be displaying such a hunger for knowledge and learning if they hadn't been out abusing seventh year privileges the night before.

"Catching up on work sacrificed at the altar of the Three Broomsticks, no doubt," Richard said, concurring with Aurelius' unspoken thought. "Serves them right," he added, taking in the bleary eyes and worn faces of the beleaguered students. 

The two boys were sitting at a desk right at the back of the library, close to the Restricted Section. Richard had placed a few strategic piles of books on the desk, partially concealing them from the viewpoint of any observers by the library door, yet allowing them an unimpeded view of the room. It had been his urging on Saturday afternoon that had convinced Aurelius and Constance to head for the library with him, ostensibly to get a head start on the horrific amounts of homework they'd been set by various teachers. The blonde girl hadn't turned up in the common room to meet them, though, and the boys had decided not to risk her wrath by hammering on the door of the girls' dormitory. _Constance has the right idea, the lazy cow,_ Aurelius thought enviously, aware of both the nagging sense of hunger in his stomach and a distinct desire to go back to sleep.

Richard didn't seem in a particular hurry to start working either, Aurelius noted. Instead, the brown haired Slytherin was watching the activities of the school librarian with amusement. Abiatha Groan, an elderly, emaciated looking man, seemed decidedly resentful of the presence of students in his beloved library. He'd frowned horribly in their direction when they'd entered, and scowled as they'd sat down undeterred. After a few moments glaring impotently, the librarian had turned his attention elsewhere. Whilst the two boys watched, an expression of intense bliss suffused his withered features as he contemplated the dust free shelves of beautifully bound books. He had, in fact, the day before, rearranged them in accordance with the Dewey Decimal System Version Two – the magical variation upon the theme familiar to Muggles – and had evicted various students who had been trying to work. 

"Is he actually _stroking _those books?" Richard asked, not bothering to keep his voice down. His head was tilted slightly to one side in an attitude of puzzled, polite inquiry. Minerva McGonagall, a seventh year Gryffindor, overheard, and shot the boys a disapproving frown before returning to a particularly tricky Potions essay.

"I was hoping it was a form of cleaning ritual," Aurelius answered, watching Groan's hands slide gently down the spine of a particularly obscure looking book – _Zen and the Art of Broomstick Maintenance_. Oddly enough, Aurelius had never read it. "I was trying to give him the benefit of the doubt."

Richard Marlowe shook his head sadly. "You're too generous," he said sorrowfully. "Look at the tenderness of the caress with which he is, even now, blessing those unfortunate books. Look at the sordid, yet fervent gleam in his eyes, the slightly furtive air with which he proceeds to the next shelf…" he trailed off. "It's enough to make you lose the will to live," he proclaimed melodramatically. "I hate this place."

Aurelius was unimpressed. "Unless my memory fails me," he said, "and, never having done so before I see no possible reason for it to start now, I seem to recall a certain tone deaf Arithmancy whizz kid all but _begging_ Constance and I on bended knee to come here. Out of the distant past of yesterday, this was."

Richard sighed. "What an unsubtle way of asking me to stop talking shite. I'm disappointed, I really am."

"Are you planning on doing a_ny_ work today, or is this all just a ploy so you can laugh at my hunger and misery?" Aurelius asked.

"Well," Richard began, flicking through a number of crumpled scrolls. "I have to admit that _is_ a tempting prospect –"

"I believe that I gave up breakfast for this," Aurelius said, ignoring his stomach's audible protest. "I don't think you understand the effect this will have on me for the rest of the day."

"The more interruptions you make, the longer this will take," Richard said, shutting one of his books with a decisive thud. His eyes widened innocently. "I just can't concentrate with you sniping at me." 

"And I believe breakfast involved _croissants_," Aurelius said dangerously. "So shut up and do your Divination, or whatever it is you're stuck on."

Richard smiled and patted his friend's shoulder with mock sympathy. "There, there, Snapey," he said considerately. 

__

Snapey growled murderously.

Richard, seeing the look of outraged dignity in his friend's face, hastily turned to a thick sheaf of scrolls on the desk. "Have you decided on your minor subject then?" he asked, after a few minutes of silence during which Aurelius had been trying to rest his eyes without falling asleep. "For Binns' assignment?"

"Care of Magical Creatures," Aurelius said, giving up all thoughts of his nice warm bed. "I'm going to write about Grindelwald's twisted fetish for Hungarian Horntails, or, more precisely, to what purposes he employs those horns," he deadpanned.

Richard tried to sneer and smirk at the same time, and failed miserably. "Potions, I presume?" he said instead.

"It's my best subject, you dolt, I'm not likely to choose _Muggle Studies_, am I?" Aurelius replied scathingly. He began to shove some useful facts about Chinese calligraphy into his Ancient Runes essay.

"So you'll be putting all those late night sessions with your cousin to good use then?" the brown haired boy asked. "What is it you actually _do _anyway?"

"Things that you're too thick to understand," Aurelius said unfeelingly, not looking up from his essay. "You ignorant sod."

Richard chucked the nearest thing available at Aurelius' head. Unfortunately this happened to be his bag of Divination runestones, which promptly burst upon impact and scattered the jade stones all over the floor. His "oh _arse_!" coincided with Aurelius' yelp of pain, and various exasperated outbursts from the other inhabitants of the library.

Abiatha Groan bore down upon them, eyes glittering furiously. Seeing him, Richard quickly slid off his chair and onto the floor, where he began to pick up his runestones.

"I will have no disturbances in my library," announced Groan ponderously. "The next time you disrupt the peace and quiet, you will have to leave."

"Sorry sir," mumbled Richard, who was halfway under the table. "It was an accident, I dropped my bag and it burst –" 

The librarian made a noise like a strangled snort, indicating his complete lack of belief in Richard's story, but rotated sharply on his heel and marched away.

"An _accident_?" said Aurelius sarcastically. "That bloody _hurt_, you stupid git."

"I can't help it if your head got in the way," Richard said haughtily, from underneath the table. "It shouldn't be so big."

"The famous Marlowe wit's as sharp as ever," Aurelius sniped, rubbing his head where the bag had struck it. "For the sake of the Snake, boy, just do what you dragged me here to do and get some bloody work done!"

Without actually coming out from underneath the table, Richard began dropping his runestones one by one into his bag, each one giving an offended "clink". Aware that there were over fifty stones in his friend's collection, Aurelius gave into temptation, and kicked his legs forward. There was a muffled thud, a distinct groan, and then silence. Honour was satisfied. _Big head indeed_, Aurelius thought, watching as his friend crawled back out from under the table, and began to write his Divination essay, his slapdash handwriting as illegible as usual.

Aurelius put the finishing touches to his Ancient Runes essay, rolled it up, and stowed it carefully in his bag. Then he turned his attention to the brief notes he'd made earlier, regarding Binns' assignment. He'd decided upon his approach to the subject – _To what extent did Grindelwald's successful assaults upon the security of Eastern Europe during the period 1915 – 1921 depend upon his use of unauthorized substances? – _and was already familiar with the effects and composition of the various potions he'd need to research – Veritaserum, Draught of the Living Death, and Corpus Immobilatus. He could also consider the response of the Albanian Crime Squad – they'd tested certain variations of Veritaserum upon captured Grindelwald supporters, eighteen of whom had died due to the virulence of the undiluted asp blood. _Shame I can't focus on his more recent activities_, Aurelius thought wistfully. He would have liked to have been able to concentrate on Grindelwald's use of the Nox Mirabilis, and the Ministry's plans for retaliation with the same potion. And the Impervio, of course. But he didn't need to bring the matter up with his cousin to know that the answer would be absolutely, unmistakably _no_. 

A sudden draught rustled the papers on the tables as the library doors opened, making the two boys look up. To the extreme displeasure of Abiatha Groan, who cracked his knuckles horribly, three more students entered the room. Aurelius watched as Tom Riddle, Marcus Malfoy and Felix DuPré headed towards their corner of the library. Constance's brother nodded politely to his sister's friends, but did not join them, following Tom Riddle and the head boy to an empty desk a few feet away. 

"Great minds think alike," Richard said, eyeing Tom Riddle malevolently as the half-blood spread out various parchments on the desk. "Does he ever give it a rest?"

"You could try following his example," Aurelius suggested, looking pointedly at his friend's unfinished Divination essay. He glanced over at the other table, to where the head boy was poring over something Riddle had shown him, brow furrowed. Aurelius squinted, but he couldn't quite make out what the papers said. 

There was an audible tut of disapproval from Groan as the door opened yet again, this time admitting a flushed, breathless Constance. She hurried over to where they were sitting, glancing curiously at her brother as she passed.

"Slept in, did we?" Richard asked snidely. "Thought you'd have a nice lie-in? Nice dreams about your teachers? Wuthering Heights Revisited and all that?"

"Oh ha, another decidedly unsubtle Lockhart reference," Constance said as she pulled up a chair and sat down in between her two friends. "You're _so_ predictable."

Richard grinned. "Works every time, though."

"Serves you right for having no standards," Aurelius chipped in. "Serves you right for drooling over that – overdressed, oversexed, overindulged – _thing_."

"Lockhart was a tart, my dear, a tart in gilded clobber," Richard said, as eloquently as ever. 

"Oh just die, the pair of you," Constance snapped, forsaking banter for bluntness. "As a matter of fact, though, I _did_ have rather perverse dreams," she added, after a moment's pause. "They were very vivid."

Aurelius raised an eyebrow quizzically.

"You'd better keep them to yourself," Richard said, "unless you want to terrify poor innocent Aurelius with your heinous tales of lust and lechery."

"Poor innocent Aurelius my eye," Constance said, before Aurelius could reply. "You'd never know by looking at him, but beneath that cool and composed exterior there's a veritable furnace of unbridled–" 

"_When_ you've quite finished discussing my fiery sensual side, or lack of," Aurelius said wryly, "some of us have work to do."

"I dreamed that I was in the Forbidden Forest," Constance said, looking back at the table where her brother, Riddle and DuPré were sitting, "and I was talking to centaurs about the stars – then they turned into unicorns and I flew away on the back of a Hippogriff." She shuddered. "I _hate_ those things."

Aurelius sneered at her. "I'd like to be able to discuss the deep underlying significance of this dream," he said, "but there isn't one. You're just certifiable."

"Been eating any cheese recently?" asked Richard. "Cheese dreams are always weird – I remember once I had this _brilliant _dream about Potter –"

"I'll bet you did," Aurelius murmured. "Pervert."

"Shut it," Richard leered at him. "Potter's not my type."

"Oh?" Aurelius said, grinning. "And just who _is_ your type?"

The brown haired boy sighed tragically, and, putting his hand on top of Aurelius', began to stroke his friend's fingers. "After all these years, you have to ask me that?"

Aurelius tried and failed to maintain a straight face as Richard snorted with amusement.

As he exchanged cordial insults with Richard, he noticed Constance had turned to look at the other table again. Her brother was smiling slightly at something Felix had said, but the blonde girl wasn't looking at either of them. She was gazing at Riddle, who had taken a small black book from his bag, and was writing something on the front page, oblivious to her stare. _So that's the way of it, is it_, Aurelius wondered. Well. Constance could certainly do a lot worse than the most brilliant student in the school. Even if he was only a half-blood. Her brother didn't seem to disapprove of him. Quite the contrary. _She could still do better_, he thought, surprising himself.

Riddle stood up abruptly, causing Constance to lower her eyes. The tall sixth year headed for the Restricted Section, handing a note casually to Groan as he passed. After a brief hesitation, Felix DuPré followed. Constance's brother remained seated, but watched as his companions disappeared from view, an unreadable expression in his eyes.

"I'll be back in a minute," Constance said suddenly, interrupting Richard's long, involved explanation of his Potter dream. "I need to ask Marcus something." 

"You mean you're _not_ fascinated by Richard's secret lust for Andrew Potter?" Aurelius asked, voice laden with sarcasm.

"Nothing secret about it," Constance said as she stood up. "I've seen him drooling when he thinks no-one's looking – he couldn't be more obvious if he tried."

__

Gives you both something in common, _then_, Aurelius thought as Constance walked off. _Subtle as bricks. _

"Oh very funny," Richard said to the girl's retreating back. "I've done nothing of the sort."

"Nothing?" Aurelius said, watching as Constance slipped into Riddle's empty chair. "Nothing tra la la?"

"Potter is my nemesis," Richard said seriously. "I will always maintain that the presence of dancing broomsticks in my dream had nothing to do with phallic symbolism, but rather represents a strong subliminal urge to beat his brains out with his blasted Silver Arrow."

"You keep telling yourself that," Aurelius smirked. 

Richard made a face, and underlined the title of his remarkably short essay. "Do you think she"- he nodded in Constance's direction – "will let me copy her Divination if I ask nicely?"

"Maybe if you confess to your impure thoughts regarding Potter," Aurelius said, enjoying the look of outrage on Richard's face, "in public, wearing sweaty Hufflepuff Quidditch robes – she might let you take a look."

"Maybe if you confess to impure thoughts regarding _Dumbledore_," Richard countered, "in public, wearing only the school Sorting Hat, I'll consider it."

Whilst they bickered, Constance and her brother, after having had a brief and inaudible conversation, came to join the two boys at their table. Richard didn't look particularly enthused by Marcus' arrival, but that was understandable. In Richard's third year, Marcus had discovered that one of Richard's ancestors had broken an engagement with one of the Malfoy ancestors in order to carry on a liaison someone else. Which Marcus could have forgiven if this someone else hadn't been a Muggle, an actor, and male, in that order. 

"It was almost _four hundred years_ ago, for God's sake," Richard had complained, arguably justifiably aggrieved. "It's not like I was personally involved!"

The situation hadn't been rectified by Richard's decision to hex Marcus' broomstick during Quidditch practice, in retaliation for several cutting insults that Constance's brother had flung at him in the common room. There had been more than just words exchanged between the two, and it took a combined diplomatic effort from both Aurelius and Constance to restore order. Although Marcus' anti-Muggle stance had relaxed enough to allow a close association with Tom Riddle, his relationship with Richard was still notably lacking in warmth, even after three years. Then again, what was three years to someone who got seriously pissed off over the events of four hundred years ago?

The brown haired boy nodded curtly in response to Marcus' greeting – which was only just bordering on civil in its perfunctory nature – then shot Constance a venomous glare.

Constance pretended not to notice. "So, how's your Divination going? Want to borrow my notes?" she asked brightly.

Despite the icy grey stare of Marcus Malfoy, Richard accepted her offer instantly – his Divination essay was nowhere near the four feet that Professor Haven had demanded. _More like four inches_, Aurelius thought, amused. Not for the first time, he wondered why Richard bothered with the subject – he himself had dropped it after the third year, finding it too vague, hazy and generally unscientific, rather like Lockhart had been. According to Constance, Professor Haven was highly competent, and fiercely intelligent. Aurelius was still skeptical. 

"Have you planned your History assignment yet?" Richard asked, copying Constance's notes down hurriedly. 

Constance shook her head. "I can't decide what to choose as my minor subject," she explained. "It's out of Divination, Chantwork and Defence against the Dark Arts at the minute."

"Play to your strengths," Aurelius advised. "Get your uncle to do it for you."

Constance gave him a mock-severe frown. "As if I'd use my family connections like that," she said, smiling. "No, I'm probably going to choose Divination – but I'm not sure. I quite like the thought of studying Invocation Chants, you see."

"Invocation Chants?" repeated Aurelius curiously. "Invoking what, precisely?"

Constance grinned widely. "Demons," she said. "Grindelwald's done it before, according to Professor Cale." 

"You can repel Dementors with the right Banishing Chants too," Marcus offered loftily. "Although our uncle says it's probably more effective if you master the Patronus charm." 

"You've managed the Patronus?" Aurelius asked. "That's _very_ advanced magic."

"Well, I haven't had the opportunity to test it on a real Dementor yet," Marcus confessed. 

"They're in remarkably short supply around Hogwarts," Richard said seriously. "For some reason."

"So there's lots I could get into my essay that way, you see," Constance concluded, getting back to the original topic of conversation. "But as I said, I can't decide what to do."

"O fool, fool!" Richard sighed, not looking up from his work. "Pick whatever's easiest!"

As they talked, Aurelius saw Tom Riddle and Felix DuPré emerge from the Restricted Section. As far as he could see, they weren't carrying any books, but Riddle's bag looked even heavier than usual. Felix paused when he saw that Marcus was no longer alone, and after a quiet word from Riddle, he left the library. Aurelius wondered briefly at that, storing it in his mental filing cabinet for future reference, as Riddle sat down beside Constance's brother.

"I hear _you've_ been studying very advanced areas of Potions," Marcus said, looking at Aurelius with interest in his pale grey eyes. 

Aurelius blinked, then remembered Octavius Malfoy's unwavering stare from his cousin's fire, several weeks ago. Quintus had lied, saying that they were studying the theory behind Transfiguration potions – Aurelius was almost flattered to know that the Malfoys had been talking about him. _And slightly disturbed_. 

Constance was looking between the two of them curiously. Obviously her uncle hadn't mentioned anything to her.

Aurelius dipped his head, acknowledging what his friend's brother had said. "It _is_ a family specialty."

"Are you planning on joining your family business straightaway?" Marcus asked conversationally.

He'd been thinking about this during the summer. The Snape Pharmaceutical Company, founded by Flavius Daleinus Snape II, had passed through more generations of Snapes than Aurelius cared to consider. He stood to inherit the company anyway, along with a very sizeable fortune upon his father's death, but it was tacitly understood between his father and himself that he would be joining the companies laboratories immediately after he'd gained his NEWTs. His life's course, as it were, had already been determined.

"Of course," Aurelius, the son and heir of Valerius Snape said, somewhat pensively. "It's what I was born to do, after all," he added, surprised at the trace of bitterness in his voice.

"You shouldn't underestimate the importance of family," Riddle murmured, tracing a pattern on the desk with a long, elegant finger. 

"I don't," Aurelius said, slightly nettled at the implication. "Blood will tell, after all."

"The Malfoy motto, I believe," Marcus said smiling coldly. 

"Whether we like it or not," Tom Marvolo Riddle continued, "what we inherit from our fathers defines us forever."

"And mothers," Constance said tartly. "We females do have _something_ to do with it."

A sharp amusement registered on Tom Riddle's face as he acknowledged Constance's words, but only after the first instant, and the brief smile had been preceded by another expression.

Richard snorted. "I don't complain," he said. "Sadly, I'm the son and heir of nothing in particular."

The Marlowe family, although old, were nowhere near as wealthy as the Malfoys, or as respectable as the Snapes. _Or the Zalaras family_, Aurelius remembered, watching Constance watching Tom. Riddle's mother's family dated right back to the time of the Founders – although the Zalaras fortune had diminished significantly during the past few centuries. Julius Marvolo Zalaras had still been wealthy when he'd died, but his daughter Styliane had refused all contact with him and the wizarding world when she'd married Riddle's father. She'd been disinherited, and her father had died before any reconciliation had been possible. Or so Aurelius had heard.

"You've certainly inherited your family's _penchant_ for the theatrical," Marcus said disparagingly, the events of the 1580s obviously still fresh in his mind. "Planning on snapping your wand anytime soon?"

"I can resist anything except temptation, Malfoy," Richard said haughtily, "but living as a Muggle is decidedly _not_ tempting."

"A sound magician is a mighty god?" murmured Riddle. There was a clear trace of amusement in his voice.

Richard Marlowe looked at him in mild surprise. "Quite," he said, appreciatively. "And aren't _you_ the studious artisan?"

Richard's words obviously meant something to Riddle, who smiled lazily. "Who would not be proficient in this art?" the prefect said, with the air of one quoting something learned by heart.

"_That's_ a certain text," Marlowe said, grinning.

"Would I appear frightfully ignorant if I asked you what in Merlin's name you two are prattling on about?" Constance asked, looking at Riddle.

"In a nutshell: yes." Richard sneered knowingly at her.

"I think they're indulging the Marlowe taste for the theatrical," Aurelius said. He was familiar with the works of Richard's ancestor, and had recognized the quotes.

Richard nodded. "The theatre's in my blood, Constance my cherub," he said, giving Marcus the type of withering glare that would have shocked a Basilisk. It wasn't just the Malfoys who held grudges. "I have immortal longings in me."

The main difference between Marcus and Constance, Aurelius thought, was that Marcus was decidedly lacking in a sense of humour. As Constance smiled at Richard's words, Marcus was giving the sixth year the kind of scowl that promised an end to Richard's visions of immortality. 

"I didn't have you down as the dramatic type," Aurelius said to Riddle, mostly to defuse the rather tense atmosphere that was rapidly developing rather than a genuine desire to make conversation.

Styliane Zalaras' only child smiled thinly. "I have my moments."

As the conversation turned to safer channels, largely due to Constance's mention of Quidditch, Aurelius remembered the change of expression on Riddle's face after the girl's rebuke. His smile had been sharply ironic, but only after a second's pause, so fleeting that only Aurelius had caught it. In that brief second, Aurelius though he'd seen something very different flash across Tom Riddle's face, and he wasn't entirely certain he knew what it was. 

*


	11. The Danger Within

****

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. With the exception of Tom Riddle, Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall Professor Binns and Armando Dippet, the characters belong to me. The descendants of the Malfoys, Snapes, Blacks and Potters belong to J K Rowling, but I'm sure you could figure that out for yourself. 

****

Acknowledgements: to Eric Idle, Robert Frost and there's an Alan Rickman reference for all you connoisseurs. Dippet's speech is fairly similar to that of Dumbledore's in the Goblet of Fire, because I'm hopelessly unoriginal. Notes to reviewers at the bottom.

The Serpentine Chain Part One

Chapter Eleven – The Danger Within

Sunday evening, and the owls were restless, some circling aimlessly, others flapping their wings and shifting on their perches. As if Constance's presence in the Owlery made them uncomfortable, somehow. Ignoring the offended hoots of several tawny coloured birds, she made her way over to the window where her own eagle owl was sitting in aloof isolation.

"Hello, Janus," she greeted her pet amiably, ruffling the owl's feathers as she did so. Janus, managing to maintain a form of owlish dignity, nipped her hand playfully. "No letters today," Constance said. "Or parcels," she added, remembering the DictaQuills. "But I brought you something to eat."

As she fed her owl, she glanced out of the window at the cold grey October skies above. _Marcus should be here soon_, she thought, running the events of the day through her mind again. Her dreams that Sunday morning had indeed been strangely vivid, and Tom Riddle a cool presence throughout them all, although she hadn't mentioned that to either of her friends. He'd been with her in the Forbidden Forest, his words from their conversation by the portrait echoing beneath the trees, under the stars as the dark haired centaur gazed in silence, above the unicorn sleeping on the grass, along with words she'd never heard him speak but seemed somehow fitting. 

__

"Would you. If you had the chance?"

"Against a peer? Never." 

A word, slight emphasis. A pause. A smile. Eyes like leaves, or rare stones, turquoise and green meeting over her head, and to whom is he speaking as he continues in a low, half whisper? She knows the words are not his, but cannot place their source.

"Such a mutual pair." A deep thrill in his voice, something pleases him. "We stand up peerless."

She'd lingered between sleep and wakefulness for a long time, as other dreams she wouldn't remember until much later played themselves out for her. When she finally awoke, her resolve to question her brother had crystallized. She'd decided against joining Aurelius and Richard in the library that morning, and had gone to the common room, in search of her brother. Learning from a tired looking seventh year that Marcus, Tom and the head boy had headed to the library themselves only a few minutes earlier, she changed her mind again, and hurried off through the corridors and stairwells of the castle. An idea had formed during the night, and she intended to put it into practice as soon as possible.

Sitting with Aurelius and Richard, she watched as her brother discussed something with Felix, and Riddle noted something down in a small black book. The sixth year didn't look up, but she did not presume that he was entirely unaware of her regard. She was fully aware of Aurelius looking at _her_, although she did not show it. _Let him think what he wants_, she thought, aware of the interpretation her friend would place upon her actions. Aurelius could be remarkably sentimental where some things were concerned. _There are more important things to do_. Riddle's words exactly, although about Quidditch. She remembered.

She took the brief opportunity offered her as Riddle and DuPré entered the Restricted Section, to request something of her brother. For once, Marcus proved amenable, and had acquiesced, with only a raised eyebrow to indicate any visible reaction. 

"The Owlery, seven o'clock," he'd said indifferently. "We can discuss the details there."

She'd set off for the Owlery early, leaving Aurelius and Richard battling it out over a game of chess in the common room. The sudden string of expletives as she'd slipped out of the door implied that Richard was losing. And not particularly liking the experience. She didn't need to look back to see the satisfied smirk on Aurelius' face – it was the one he wore whenever he slaughtered _her_ at chess. Which occurred rather more frequently than she'd like. Chess wasn't her strong point. 

The creaking of the door as it opened caused several of the owls to flap their wings in indignation, but Constance was pleased to see that Janus remained composed. She turned to face her brother, smiling a greeting.

"I might have known you'd be _early_," he said, somewhat ungraciously.

"So are you, technically," Constance pointed out. "It's only five to seven."

"True," Marcus conceded. "Obviously I misjudged the depth of your desire for a spot of familial bonding."

Constance sighed dramatically. "Is it so wrong to want to spend quality time with one's older brother?" she said. 

"You've never been particularly keen on spending quality time with me before," Marcus said dryly. 

__

Not entirely true, brother dear, Constance thought_. _She and Marcus had been fairly close, up until her first year at Hogwarts. Although it was an unwritten law that family came first, Marcus hadn't wanted his little sister tagging along with his friends. And it wasn't as if she particularly wanted him mixing with Aurelius and Richard, for that matter. The arrangement suited everyone concerned. She decided to get to the point. 

"Needs must," she said, dropping any attempt at subtlety. Family was family, after all.

"You need me, little sister? I'm touched, truly."

Constance rolled her eyes. "No need to rub it in," she murmured. "But as I said earlier, I do need your assistance."

"You want me to give you dueling lessons," Marcus said, repeating what she'd asked him earlier in the library. "Why?"

She raised an eyebrow. "The same reason you have extra tuition with our uncle, no doubt," she'd said by way of a reply, taking care to keep her voice neutral. _Take that any way you like it, brother dear._ "Throwing the odd hex at the Gryffindors never fails to amuse – but it's hardly the cutting edge of magical warfare. It's not _real magic_."

"Planning on joining the Aurors?" her brother asked, a hint of amusement in his voice that only another Malfoy would notice. For all intents and purposes, his expression and tone were deadly serious.

"Oh, definitely," Constance said, a trace of scorn in her voice. "I've always wanted to _work_ for my living."

Her brother smiled slightly, but didn't press her for a clearer answer. Nor did he ask why she'd come to him instead of their uncle – something that partially confirmed her suspicions about the relationship between them. She was aware that Marcus and their uncle had been discussing Aurelius behind his back – the scene in the library had made that clear – and had guessed that Octavius Malfoy would have also relayed the details of the scene with Seraphim to Marcus. Moreover, her uncle was not the type of man who would have allowed Seraphim to hint at such things in front of her without a good reason. And Marcus hadn't been surprised when she'd made her request in the library, either. There was a reason for everything a Malfoy did, no matter which member of the family it was.

She was being tested. 

Both Marcus and her uncle wanted her to do exactly what she was doing – trying to find out if Seraphim's accusations had any basis in reality. And Constance had realized a few days ago that not only was she fairly sure they did, she _wanted_ it to be so. Because the excuse she'd just given her brother was true – she wanted to be more than just a Slytherin with a nice command of irritating hexes. She did want to extend her knowledge, and badly. Her uncle had given her enough clues, it was up to her to follow them. It was part of the test. To see if she had potential.

__

Real magic. She was aware of the contempt with which people viewed practitioners of the Dark Arts. It was a fairly recent prejudice, based upon the actions of Grindelwald and his followers and one that she didn't share. _True_ Dark Arts masters were rare, nowadays. The legislation passed by Ferdinand Flay, the then Minister of Magic, in 1919 carried very harsh penalties against what was deemed to be _improper_ use of magic. _Dark magic is anything that contradicts the status quo_, Aurelius had said during the History of Magic lesson in which they'd learned about the 1919 Agreement. _Anything that makes people think for themselves, about how to improve their lives, their family prospects. Still, it keeps the plebes in line, _he'd added, sniggering. Constance had agreed with him. She didn't think that magic, in itself, was dark or light. It was neutral. Despite what people like Seraphim thought, a Dark witch or wizard wouldn't necessarily be a conscienceless, remorseless killer in league with Grindelwald. The Ministry's view of Dark wizards as people who were solely bent on destruction and chaos was ridiculous. It was about personal ambition. Family ambition. Ambition wasn't a bad thing, and it certainly didn't make you insane. The will to power was the motivating factor behind _everybody's_ actions, after all. 

And if her uncle was willing to teach her, as she was sure he was teaching Marcus, it was all to the good of the family. She was under no illusions as to her eventual fate – she knew what was demanded from the children of aristocratic families. The continuation of the bloodline was essential. Marcus would have a suitable wife selected for him to produce an heir. Constance herself would be married off to another wealthy pureblood. _If Tom Riddle had been a full-blooded Zalaras, _Constance thought, _Father would have sold his soul to marry me off to him. _The Zalaras family dated back to the time of the Founders – Constance wasn't sure what had possessed Styliane Zalaras to marry a Muggle, but she'd seriously damaged her son's chances of success in aristocratic wizarding society. She could just imagine her father's reaction to the prospect of Muggle blood infiltrating the Malfoy family, and it wasn't pretty. She felt a more than just a twinge of sympathy for Tom. 

But the world being what it was, and judging by her father's long interest in the Snape Pharmaceutical Company, she'd probably end up with Aurelius. The fact that they'd known each other since birth was a strong case for this alliance. And if she had Dark skills, she'd be able to offer more than just the Malfoy family name as part of the wedding bargain. After all, a powerful wife would make her husband a powerful ally, would be better able to further the interests of the family, and she'd be more likely to be able to choose for _herself_ which alliance she wanted to make. 

If indeed, she wanted to make any alliances. 

She didn't _mind_ marrying Aurelius, but that wasn't the point. She remembered only too well what the Hat had said to her during her Sorting. She _did_ want to prove herself, to her family and as an individual. Ironic how her complaints to Seraphim – that girls from old wizarding families were often seen as ornaments – had actually been based on truth. But throughout the history of the Malfoy family, there'd been women who'd proved they were otherwise, and most of them had been Dark Witches. Elaria and Ember Malfoy, known as the Dark Twins to the fifteenth century wizarding world, had been her childhood heroines. She'd daydreamed about being the most powerful witch since she was very young – hadn't she and Marcus had played at being Salazar Slytherin and his Heiress ever since they'd been able to read _Hogwarts: A History_?

The aura of power she craved clung to her uncle. He wore it like a caged tiger, stalking the Hogwarts corridors. Her father had it too, but in a different way. He had the power due to him as the firstborn, the heart of the family. Her mother lacked it, but then, her mother was only a Malfoy by marriage. Constance knew full well that, married or no, those born Malfoys stayed Malfoys. Although they were loyal to the families they married into, their first priority would always be to the blood ties. It was all about survival. _Blood will tell_, she told herself firmly. 

Her brother cleared his throat, bringing her back to the present with a jolt. "So," Marcus said, patting her owl on the head. "You want your first lesson after the Halloween feast? Tomorrow night?"

Constance nodded. "Where, though? The common room's nowhere near private enough, and I don't want the world knowing."

"_That_ won't be a problem," Marcus said, looking strangely satisfied. "Trust me."

Constance looked at him, quizzically. "Well?"

Marcus smiled secretively. "After the Halloween feast," he said. "Wait until then."

*

Although Aurelius usually gave his full attention to his food during the lunch hour, his thoughts that Halloween afternoon were elsewhere. As Richard rambled on about the velocity of various Unforgivable Curses that he'd been researching in Arithmancy, Aurelius' mind was on the lesson he'd just had earlier that morning with his cousin. Only an hour earlier, he'd been in the dungeons with the other the sixth year Slytherins and Gryffindors. Constance, his usual partner in Potions, had been late to the lesson, giving Richard time to usurp her place next to Aurelius. The brown haired boy had claimed to need Aurelius' skill in Potions far more than Constance did, and anyway, the blonde girl looked rather pleased at being able to work with Tom Riddle. _Looks as though the feeling's mutual,_ Aurelius had noted, watching as the usually reticent halfblood cleared a space on his desk for Constance's things.

Whilst they were brewing a relatively simple Numbing Draught, his cousin handed back the essays they'd just done on Anaesthetizing Potions, murmuring the occasional appreciative remark to a few students as he did so. Aurelius had gained an A, as usual, but there were a few written comments at the bottom of his essay that had nothing to do with Anaesthetizing Potions. As Richard scowled at his uncompromising C grade, Aurelius watched Quintus' elegant script shimmer and vanish as he read. He'd been turning the words over in his mind ever since._ Ten-thirty tonight, if you can make it. See me for a corridor pass at the end of the lesson._ The Slytherin frowned slightly, as he wondered why his cousin needed him so soon after they'd finished brewing the Nox Mirabilis. _At least I won't miss the feast tonight, _he'd thought. The Halloween feast usually finished around nine-thirty – it'd give him an hour to sort out that night's homework. He'd wondered hopefully whether Quintus had more work for him. 

But it wasn't just the potions making he enjoyed during his sessions with his cousin, although that _was_ the reason Quintus had requested his assistance in the first place. Aurelius found the news his cousin gave him about the war, about Grindelwald, fascinating. He knew that no one else knew about the missing Unspeakables, and no one yet knew about the Ministry's plans for retaliation. Knowing things that other people didn't appealed to him immensely at the best of times – and knowing things of such importance to the wizarding world appealed even more. He wasn't ashamed to admit that his admiration for his cousin had increased dramatically since he'd learned that the quiet, bookish Quintus had secret links to the Ministry – but he also wondered how much Quintus had been told, and how much Quintus himself had withheld. Because he _was_ holding something back from Aurelius. Even though the Slytherin as a rule distrusted his instincts, he knew himself well enough to know that they were often right. He'd caught his cousin regarding him speculatively from time to time, as if weighing up how much to tell him and how much to conceal. And during the conversation they'd had about the Nox Mirabilis, Aurelius had felt that Quintus was somehow _searching_ him, trying to take his full measure. He'd had the distinct impression that he'd somehow disappointed his cousin with his response, but he didn't quite know exactly what Quintus wanted from him. 

A sudden pain in his side brought him to himself again. Aurelius glared at Richard, who'd just jabbed him with his elbow.

"You haven't been listening to a word I've been saying, have you?" Richard asked.

"No," Aurelius confessed. "My thoughts went off on a tangent some time ago, I'm afraid."

Richard scowled at him. "I can pardon the action," he said, "but _not_ that pathetic joke."

"It was quite weak, I admit," Aurelius said, sheepishly. "Not one of my better efforts. What were you talking about, anyway? The velocity of the Killing Curse, wasn't it?"

His friend rolled his eyes. "That was about ten minutes ago," Richard pointed out with exaggerated calm. "I was actually trying to show you _this_." As he spoke, he thrust a copy of that morning's _Daily Prophet_ in front of Aurelius' eyes. "Look at the trash they're employing nowadays – I can't believe they allow these people to _breed_."

The heir to the Snape fortune stared at the newspaper in surprise. _FORMER MINISTER OF MAGIC MURDERED_, screeched the front page. Underneath the overly large headline, the article continued in only slightly smaller print: _Dark League Symbol Carved Into Dismembered Corpse!_ _Retired Unspeakables Missing! Grindelwald suspected! _Beneath that was a picture of the dead Minister – a tall, gaunt looking man with shadows under his eyes – and several paragraphs that were punctuated intermittently with exclamation marks. Somewhat perturbed by the rather hysterical tone of the usually serious newspaper, Aurelius checked the identity of the reporter. Anita Skeeter, of course. 

"You're right," Aurelius said, reading the article quickly. "I don't think the _Daily Prophet_'s going to have much of a future if it continues to employ such dismal plebes. Figg's okay, but this Skeeter person should have her heart cut out with a spoon." 

Richard gave him a curious look. "Why a spoon?"

"Because it's _blunt_, you twit," Aurelius murmured. "It'll _hurt more_." 

"Of course," Richard said, grinning. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"Because you're stupid, as I keep telling you," Aurelius replied absently. He was somewhat taken aback by the article, and not just because Anita Skeeter's spelling mistakes had escaped the notice of the editor. How on _earth_ had the likes of that woman gotten hold of information about the missing Unspeakables – and then wondered how in the name of Salazar Slytherin had somebody as well protected as an ex-Minister had been murdered. _And why a retired Minister, _he mused_, _glancing at the dates that had been printed under the picture_._ Did this new development have anything to do with the fact that Ferdinand Flay, the late Minister had been the one to authorize the Department of Mysteries to conceal any living visionweavers from Grindelwald, years ago? _It's the only connection, _he thought._ No doubt this is what Quintus wants to see me about. _"Why didn't you show me this earlier?" he demanded.

"Because I left it behind in Divination and I had to go back and get it," Richard explained. His eyes were gleaming with excitement. "The Ministry can't take it lying down this time, can they?"

"I doubt it," Aurelius said, thinking hard. _Although they've not been entirely inactive up until now._

"Do you think we'll go to war?" Richard asked, wide-eyed. "Properly?"

"Don't worry, Marlowe, I think _we're_ too young to enlist," Aurelius replied dryly.

Richard scoffed. "Thank heaven for small mercies," he said. "But you know what I mean – do you think Copernicus will _do_ something, now?"

"I – expect so," Aurelius replied, evasively. _He'll have to, now the whole world knows about this._

Constance, who'd been sitting across the table from them as she talked to Teresa, leaned across to read the paper upside down. "Flay's _dead_?" she asked incredulously. "How?"

Aurelius scanned the paper, wincing at Skeeter's irritating penchant for treating her readers as though they were mentally defective. "I shouldn't say," he said, "it's too disgusting for the fairer sex. You might faint," he added, grinning.

"Oh just bloody well tell me," Constance snapped. "I'm tougher than you think."

"He was hacked to bits," Aurelius said ghoulishly. He was mesmerized by Skeeter's lurid description of Flay's corpse. "One of his house-elves found his fingers shoved inside the taps in his bathroom at home in Surrey – and they had to search the entire house twice before they found the rest of him –"

Richard continued, ignoring Teresa's faint protest. "Apparently they found his head hidden in a plant pot," he announced, "and you don't want to _know_ what they did to his eyeballs."

"Yes I do," Constance said quickly. "Tell me!"

"Oh that is _so_ revolting," Aurelius said, pretending to read the section Richard was pointing to. "But quite imaginative, I admit."

"What?" Constance asked, fascinated. "What did they do?"

"They stuffed them," Richard said, beginning to snigger. "With _peas_!"

"Oh _ick_," Constance said. "I hate peas." 

"And then they fried them," Aurelius added. "Ten points for ingenuity."

"That's absolutely foul," Teresa said, grimacing. She pushed her Brussel sprouts away. "I've lost my appetite now."

"Foul yes, but decidedly stylish," Richard said. "Murderers with culinary flair – you don't get too many of _those_ nowadays."

"You'd know," Teresa said acidly. "Weirdo."

Aurelius took pity on her. "They didn't _really_ cut out his eyes and fry them," he said, smirking. "We made that bit up."

"How charming," the auburn haired girl said. "You bunch of degenerates."

"Falsified culinary eccentricities aside," Constance said, rolling her eyes at Richard, "do they know who killed him?"

"They found the Dark League symbol carved into his forehead," Aurelius said. "So it was probably Grindelwald's lot."

"What symbol?" Teresa asked curiously. "I've never heard of any symbol."

"That's because you don't pay attention in History of Magic," Richard said righteously. "You should take a leaf out of mine and Aurelius' book."

"There's no _way_ you pay attention to Binns," Constance interjected, smilingly.

"True, my fair friend," Richard admitted, "but we _used_ to, during the turbulent, tempestuous, tumultuous days of youth."

"I remember them fondly," Aurelius said, in mock sadness.

"And according to Binns," the brown haired boy continued, ignoring Aurelius, "Grindelwald adopted a big hairy spider as his official insignia about two years ago."

"I hate spiders," Teresa said. "They have too many legs and they _scuttle_."

Richard leered at her. "I'll protect you from spiders, my dear," he offered gallantly. "Whether they're Acromantulas, tarantulas…ah, bugger, I can't think of anything else that rhymes."

"Why thank you," the auburn haired girl said, smiling flirtatiously. "It's the thought that counts."

Aurelius and Constance exchanged weary glances as Richard clasped Teresa's hand affectionately.

"However, if Grindelwald comes after you, you're on your own," Richard added, grinning as Teresa scowled at him.

"Ever the gentleman, Richard," Constance said, smirking. "Sure you shouldn't have been a Gryffindor?"

"Ah, don't remind me of what could have been," Richard said sadly. "I could've been sleeping in the same room as _Potter_ if the damn Hat had just seen sense and taken my bribe! Imagine the possibilities!"

"But a _true _Gryffindor wouldn't have tried to bribe the Hat," Aurelius said sanctimoniously. "So you can't keep Potter's bed warm at nights, unfortunately."

"Never mind," Richard sighed. "_Your_ bed is just as good, Snapikins."

"If I find ever find you within five feet of _my_ bed, I'll have your eyes stuffed and fried before you can say _le vice anglais_," Aurelius said, as Constance sniggered. 

"I think Flay's death's given you ideas," the blonde girl grinned. "You'll end up in Azkaban, mark my words."

Teresa sniffed. "Doesn't the fact that a man's dead mean _anything_ to you?"

"Not really," Richard said lazily. "Fact of life, isn't it?"

"Death's the one thing we all have in common," Aurelius agreed. "And it's not as if we knew him _personally_."

"Well, actually," Constance said, "my father met him a couple of times – but he was the idiot responsible for half the laws that father's always complaining about – so it's not like _he'll_ miss him."

"God, your father probably bumped him off," Richard said grinning. "Never interfere with the way a Malfoy runs his business, that's my motto."

"A wise motto," Constance said serenely. 

"But he didn't just _die_," Teresa insisted. "He was cut up and squashed into plant pots and things."

"Yep, and the Ministry's testing the remains of his body for the presence of any potions as well," Richard said, rereading the article. 

Aurelius blinked. _Nox Mirabilis, maybe? Quintus might know._

"Ha," Constance said smugly. "I bet Aurelius' father was in on the act too. We're all a bunch of natural born killers."

"You people are _horrid_," Teresa said haughtily. "I think I'll go to the library." She paused, obviously waiting for Richard to either stop her going or offer to accompany her. 

"See you after the feast, then?" Richard asked cheerfully. "You, me, moonlight – the Quidditch field – don't be late. I'll be the Quaffle and you can be the hoop." 

"Young love," Constance said sentimentally. "It's so _sweet_." 

"Indeed," Aurelius said. "I'm touched."

The auburn haired girl blushed as Richard waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Honestly, just cheapen _everything_ why don't you?" she sighed. "Death - love - it's all a _big joke_ to you, isn't it?" And without waiting for an answer, she headed out of the Great Hall.

"_She's_ very sensitive today," Richard said, staring after her. "But if you can't laugh the absurdity of the world, what else _can _you do?"

"True, oh so true," Aurelius agreed. "Life is quite absurd, and death's the final word."

"Always look on the bright side of death, say I," Richard continued. 

"It was pretty sick though," Constance mused, obviously considering Flay's untimely death. "Fascinating. But sick."

"And I don't know what she was talking about love for, either," Richard carried on, outraged. "Godric's tiny balls, I'm _sixteen_! What does she _expect_?"

"Maybe it's _that_ time of the month," Aurelius said wisely, lowering his voice for emphasis. "Girls can get unduly emotional then."

Richard looked confused. "But she's not a werewolf," he said, and then his eyes grew round. "_Oh_," he said as the light dawned.

"Lycanthropy," Constance said sternly, "is something _men_ invented to trivialize the suffering of women."

Aurelius smirked. "I'd like to see you try writing _that_ in one of your uncle's essays," he said.

Constance sighed. "As would I," she said. "But he really didn't take too kindly to Arya's idea about vampires, so I'd better not. Family ties can only tolerate so much."

"What idea was this?" Richard asked incautiously. 

__

Oh don't get her started, Aurelius begged inwardly. _Please_. Constance and Arya had been known to go on for _hours_ about the feminine aspects of the moon, and other lady things.

"Well," Constance said, "in all the literary sources, the bite of a vampire has been depicted as the ultimate sexual experience," she paused, smirking. Aurelius looked away as she continued, "and Arya elaborated on this quite a bit, as well as describing the female victims as "happy bleeding women" because they've accepted their femininity – and I don't need to go on, do I?"

Both the boys shook their heads vigorously. 

Constance grinned wickedly. "Anyway, my uncle wasn't impressed."

"I can imagine," Aurelius murmured. "Puts an entirely different slant on Defence against the Dark Arts, anyway."

"Hasn't your uncle met vampires?" Richard asked. "Didn't he used to live in Transylvania, or something?"

"He did indeed," Constance said lightly. "No doubt he got up to stuff that'd make even _you_ blush. Although I prefer not to think of him in that way. He being my _uncle_, after all"

"Yes. Well," Richard said. "Suddenly I feel less hungry."

"Funny how you can handle dismembered corpses with aplomb, but at the first mention of _female things_ you boys go all squeamish," Constance said tartly.

"Actually, it was the thought of your uncle having sex that _really_ put me off my food" Richard said bluntly, causing Constance to shoot him an unbelievably filthy look. "I guess I'm just odd like that," he added innocently.

Aurelius looked at the remnants of his dinner and discovered that his appetite had gone as well, although he hadn't been particularly hungry to begin with. He glanced at his watch, wondering how much time they had left. The newspaper article had increased tenfold the usual anticipation he felt before a meeting with his cousin – he felt sure that Quintus, having read the papers first thing that morning, would have something to say to him about this new development. _War is coming_, he thought, and felt a cold tingling run down his spine.

"What time is it?" Constance asked, noticing his action.

"Half one, nearly," Aurelius answered. "Hadn't we better go?"

Richard sighed, pushing his plate away. "Another thrilling lesson with the delightful Professor Haven," he said, with only a trace of his usual sarcasm in his voice. "My poor brain can't handle philosophy."

"Your poor brain can't handle _work_," Constance corrected him, as the three Slytherins headed for the door.

"There's no need to rub it in," Richard said sorrowfully. "See you in Charms, Aurelius?"

Aurelius nodded. Because he wasn't a Divination student, he had a gap in his timetable on Monday afternoons. Although it was ostensibly for study purposes, he usually used it to catch up on missed sleep. As he felt the corridor pass in his pocket, however, he thought he'd visit the library. The connection between Flay, the missing Unspeakables and the visionweavers was puzzling him, and he wanted to do a little extracurricular research.

*

The Halloween decorations this year weren't too bad, considering that Albus Dumbledore had been in charge, Quintus noted as he looked at the hovering pumpkins that lit the Great Hall with flickering orange light. Shadows danced across the faces of the teachers and students alike, creating a rather pleasant effect that partially compensated for the general aura of gloom that had been hanging over the school all day. Quintus wondered if the unusual sobriety of the décor this year was related to the shocking news that had been in the papers that morning – news that was going to make a lot of people extremely concerned about the possibility of outright war. The death of Aurors in the field was one thing – the murder of a retired man in his own _English_ house was another. And with the missing Unspeakables publicized, Quintus felt sure that the Ministry would have no choice but to retaliate in full force. And if he remembered correctly, Armando Dippet had known the late Mr. Flay quite well. They were roughly the same age, and had gone to school together. For that reason, presumably, the Headmaster had obviously been able to reign in the Transfiguration teacher's eccentricity this year, because there wasn't a single dancing skeleton in sight. _So there's a positive side to everything_, Quintus thought callously, casting his eye over the staff table. Albus Dumbledore had many gifts, but good taste wasn't one of them. In fact, he was fairly sure that the Transfiguration professor had been responsible for the orange and green pumpkin flavoured cakes last year – they'd tasted worse than a Purging Draught, according to Lydia Grey. The Potions master had tactfully refrained from asking her how she knew what a Purging Draught tasted like, and had also decided against trying the cakes in the first place. He didn't trust food that was adorned with moving marzipan goblins. As if in protest against last year's excesses, Quintus bit into an innocent looking apple – only to gag as he received a mouthful of something that tasted exactly like fairy wings. Sugary, saccharine sweet – everything he hated.

Across the table, the culprit beamed jovially at him. "Nice, isn't it?" the Transfiguration professor asked merrily, waving his fork in the direction of Quintus' apple. "My own family recipe! Made it myself!"

"Lovely," Quintus replied weakly. _Just – lovely_. As soon as Dumbledore turned his attention elsewhere, the Potions master dropped the apple discreetly behind a large dish of potatoes. Octavius Malfoy gave him a very superior look from his position a few seats down, causing Quintus to feel momentarily foolish.

The Potions master was usually fond of Halloween. It was, in his opinion, the first true day of winter, as well as being the Celtic New Year. Quintus wasn't overly concerned with the Celtic way of things, but it was a nice concept. Winter was his favourite time of year, too, for in spite of his status as a Potions master, he'd yet to find a potion that successfully tackled the hay fever that plagued him during the summer months. This particular Halloween, however, was a distraction he could have done without. He needed time alone to think before his meeting with Aurelius – although his classes had been quieter than normal thanks to the bloody reminder of the threat of war, he needed solitude to clarify his thoughts. But although he _could_ have found some excuse to avoid the feast, he'd felt he had to attend. The Headmaster wasn't an easy man to refuse at the best of times – and Armando Dippet had said only that afternoon that he expected all members of the faculty to attend_. A show of solidarity in the face of recent events_, he'd said. From that, Quintus had inferred that the Headmaster would be making a speech.

Christopher Cale's quiet voice broke into his thoughts. "It hasn't changed much since we were students, has it?".

The Chantwork teacher looked considerably better than he had last week, Quintus noted. Christopher had gotten very drunk that night at the Three Broomsticks, and had had to be supported back to his room by Quintus and the Flight instructor – the two Slytherin alumni had returned to the castle much earlier. Although Christopher knew about the death of Flay and the missing Unspeakables, Quintus had taken steps to unsure that his friend remained unaware of the more sensational details. His friend had an over active imagination, and he didn't need a reminder of what Grindelwald's forces were capable of. With a grimace of distaste, Quintus recalled the description of Flay's corpse. He hoped that John Cale had met with a cleaner end. Remembering Christopher's brother, Quintus realized that he hadn't yet had a reply from his Ministry contact regarding John's death. It had been three days since he'd sent his tawny owl Fennel off – and his owls were usually answered immediately. 

"Not really," Quintus agreed, in response to Christopher's question. "But then, it wasn't that long ago since we were students – and I joined the staff straight after graduating, of course."

"This is your – twelfth Halloween feast in a row?"

"About that, yes," the Potions master said, thinking about the conversation he'd had with his uncle five years ago, just before he'd accepted Dippet's offer of a job. He'd been briefly surprised at how readily his uncle had accepted his plan to take up the position of Potions master – but his carefully trained mind hadn't taken long to work out why. The heir to the Snape fortune had been about to start Hogwarts – with Quintus on the staff, Valerius Snape had ensured that his son was trained_ properly _at home and at school. _Trained in more than just the subtle art of Potions making_. The after hours lessons he was giving Aurelius ensured that. And when he was ready, it was understood between Quintus and Valerius that Aurelius would be Quintus' apprentice. Just as Quintus himself had been Valerius Snape's apprentice. He felt reluctant to dwell on that subject at the minute, though. _You coward_, he rebuked himself as he said aloud, "I went straight from the student tables to the staff table."

Christopher Cale looked thoughtful. "I always thought I'd end up teaching, if not here, then elsewhere – but I didn't imagine it'd be so _soon_."

"You didn't have any other plans after you finished at the Conservatory?" Quintus asked, mostly to take his mind off his family. "Didn't you tell me that the Durmstrang Philharmonic Choir wanted you?"

Christopher smiled ruefully. "I _could've_ joined them," he said, "if I'd been more of an ambitious person. But I didn't want to move so far away, and, well," he shrugged helplessly. "I always wanted to _teach_, so I took Dippet's offer instead."

"We've never really been out of school, have we?" Quintus said, looking at his glass of wine somewhat regretfully. He was one of the best in the Potions field, naturally, by virtue of his blood – but he'd never really wanted to _exploit_ his talent. Possessing no real personal ambition, he'd never really wanted anything other than the chance to make potions. And besides, when it came down to it, he rather enjoyed teaching. "I really can't imagine what my life would be like _away_ from Hogwarts now." 

"Less safe," Christopher said, bitterness in his voice. He didn't need to elaborate. "Something bothering you?" he asked, more gently.

"No," Quintus said, with a sigh. He looked away, to where Octavius Malfoy was deep in conversation with an unusually exhausted looking Elspeth Haven. Quintus had often wondered what had driven Octavius to leave England and his family at the age of eighteen, and why he'd stayed away for nearly ten years. _Second son syndrome_, he thought, gazing at the tall blonde man curiously. Quintus' own father had suffered from that, the only Gryffindor in a long line of Slytherins and Ravenclaws. Antonius Snape had not had the best relationship with his elder brother, and the two branches of the family had not been especially close. And although Quintus didn't have any brothers, he could understand the desire to get away from one's family, from endless centuries of almost overwhelming tradition, breeding, control. _It would be enough to drive anyone mad_, Quintus thought. Sometimes he almost envied his Muggle born friend his lack of heritage.

Second son or no, just as Octavius Malfoy had returned to England at his brother's bidding, so too had Antonius Snape had obeyed Valerius' various requests. Although Quintus had been a fair bit younger than his cousin when _he'd_ brewed his first killing potion, it had been in very similar circumstances. Draught of the Living Death, for the benefit of the Ministry. To be used to carry out the execution of dangerous prisoners. Well, he supposed it was painless enough – and anything was better than the Dementor's Kiss. Valerius Snape had instructed him personally, during his summers at their family home. His father had either never known, or never objected. _Loyaultie me lie – _the Snape family motto, and it was just as valid now as it ever had been. _I really am my father's son, aren't I, _he noted sourly. Then he rebuked himself for his self-pity. He remembered the message he'd left for Aurelius on his Potions essay. Only an hour or so until he'd be doing unto Aurelius what had been done unto him. And all at Valerius' command. Of course. Strange how you asked things of your family that you would never ask of a friend.

He became aware that Christopher was looking at him in concern, and realized he'd been frowning. Cursing himself for allowing his thoughts to distract him from the present, he made a conscious effort to relax. "Long day," he said, by way of explanation. "And I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep."

"Tell me about it," replied the Chantwork teacher, smiling. "I thought my workload would get easier as I got used to it – and then I decided to start offering piano lessons to the first student who flutters his overly long eyelashes at me."

"You do it to yourself, you do, and no one else," Quintus snorted. "When do they start, anyway, the lessons?"

"Wednesday nights," Christopher said. "The boy came back to check it was all right with me earlier today. He seemed very keen."

"I wish _I _had such dedicated students," Quintus said enviously, gazing over to the Slytherin table, where the student in question was sitting in between his cousin and Constance Malfoy. As if aware of his regard, his cousin turned to face him. Their eyes met, for a moment, as if some silent communication flowed, then Aurelius looked away. "And not just the one who's related to me." 

"Isn't it _odd_, teaching a member of your family?" his friend asked, with no small amount of interest. 

"It was unnerving at first," Quintus replied honestly, "but it's actually quite useful. It means I don't get any trouble from the Slytherin students – and that's definitely an advantage." 

The Chantwork teacher nodded, his eyes on Octavius Malfoy. "It's no fun being on the bad side of an angry Slytherin, take it from me," he said sheepishly. 

Quintus was about to reply, but was interrupted by three loud and ponderous knocks on the table. As Armando Dippet rose slowly from his chair, the Great Hall, which in any case had been less noisy than was usual for the Halloween feast, fell silent. Out of habit, the Potions master glanced around the staff table; taking in the solemn expressions on various teachers, Octavius Malfoy's discreetly bored air, and the Divination teacher's sudden interest in the contents of her silver goblet. Looking at the woman closely, Quintus noted that she looked deathly pale, although the low lights in the Hall did much to conceal her unusual pallor. He wondered if she was ill, and then, remembering that she was a friend of the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher, realized that there was a more likely explanation. _Another person who can't handle their drink_, he thought smugly. One of the good points about being a Snape was that he had a very good head for spirits. Hangovers were rare, and seldom lasted long.

"You are all no doubt aware," Dippet said heavily, looking at the assembled students, "that the tragic events of today are very likely to lead us headlong into war. Some of you in this hall have already suffered directly as a result of Grindelwald's Dark forces – and it appears that even we in Britain are no longer safe from his evil."

There was a soft murmur from the Ravenclaw table, where Amelie Piaf, one of the Beauxbatons students, was crying quietly. As he watched Amber Vetinari's attempts to console her, Quintus remembered that Dark wizards had killed both the French girl's parents a few weeks prior to her arrival at Hogwarts. Now, he supposed Britain was looking less and less the safe haven it had been only a few months ago.

Dippet cleared his throat, and continued. "We are all living in dark, difficult times, but I would like to say to you all upon this Halloween night that we at Hogwarts will do whatever it takes to secure the safety of our students."

__

Whatever it takes, Quintus thought. Three words that would do just as well for his family motto – Valerius Snape had been particularly fond of them._ You will do whatever it takes to train my son_. _You will do whatever it takes to ensure that Aurelius learns what is required of him. Because the Snape family will do whatever it takes to uphold the vows we made. _In an hour's time, when Aurelius came to his classroom, he'd continue carrying out Valerius' wishes.

The Headmaster was still speaking. "Although war is undoubtedly coming, Hogwarts School will remain as it has always been – a stronghold." He paused, looking around the Hall. "You are safe here." His words rang out into an uncomfortable silence, as the students stared back at him. 

Albus Dumbledore took the opportunity to raise his glass. "I propose a toast," the auburn haired Transfiguration teacher said soberly. "To Hogwarts!"

Everyone in the Hall stood, including the Beauxbatons students, and raised their goblets, echoing Dumbledore's words with one voice. The cynical expression on Octavius Malfoy's face hadn't lifted, Quintus noted, but the blonde man murmured the words along with everyone else. Upon impulse, the Potions master glanced towards Matthew Seraphim. The Flight instructor was also looking at Octavius Malfoy – and Quintus was shocked by how much hatred burned in his eyes. 

*

"_Hogwarts_," said Constance, and sat down as soon as possible. As Aurelius and Tom sank back down on either side of her, she looked at her empty plate longingly. School pride was all very well, but she needed her food. She had a busy night ahead of her. Thinking of that, she looked over to where her brother was sitting near the head of the table next to Felix DuPré, apparently deep in conversation. She hadn't had any second thoughts regarding the decision she'd made earlier, despite Teresa's long-winded diatribe against the Dark Arts in Charms that afternoon. She felt that if Grindelwald was really planning to invade Britain, she'd have a much better chance of survival if she could fight back. Ministry rules and regulations crippled the Aurors, talented as they were_. _You had to fight fire with fire._ Anyway, if my uncle's really in with the Dark Arts, I might not have to worry_, she thought, gazing at the staff table. _Grindelwald might like our family._

"Honestly," Tom Riddle murmured softly into her ear, "the way those two go on about Hogwarts you'd think they _built_ the place."

"Hah," Constance replied, equally softly. "Dippet's old enough. And surely I don't detect a hint of disloyalty in your voice?"

The half-blood smiled. "Certainly not," he said. "I am loyal to my castle." He paused. "After all, we are _safe_ here." There was a distinct trace of mockery in his voice.

Constance looked at him. "You don't agree?"

"I'm sure they _think_ we're safe," Tom said, neutrally. _Just like they thought Beauxbatons was safe_, was the unspoken implication.

"So young and yet so cynical," Constance teased. "Have you no faith in our illustrious professors?"

The dark haired boy looked at her, his turquoise eyes inscrutable. "I don't have faith in anybody," he said simply. Then he added, with an air of seriousness, "Except Binns, for his limitless capacity to inspire."

Constance grinned at his sarcastic remark. Then she realized something. "You don't normally turn up for the Halloween feast, do you?" she asked. As far as she recalled, he'd skipped every one since their first year. 

He shook his head. "Suffice it to say I was moved to display my devotion to Hogwarts tonight," he said smiling slightly. 

"Oh?" she asked, laughing. "I hadn't had you down as the sentimental type."

"A Riddle by name, a riddle by nature," Tom answered lightly. "I am, of course, enigmatic to the last."

Constance looked at him, at the unreadable turquoise eyes, and remembered her dreams of the night before. "Yes – I rather believe you _are_," she said, still smiling. "The Zalaras Riddle," she added, liking the phrase.

Tom looked at her strangely, an eyebrow half raised. "Yes," he said softly. "That's it _exactly_. "

The intensity of his gaze unnerved her, and she glanced away. From further up the table, her brother nodded to her, dispassionately. She wondered yet again what Marcus had planned for that night – he hadn't spoken to her since their meeting in the Owlery, and she still wasn't sure where he wanted them to meet later on. _Trust me_, her brother had said, and, of course, she'd have to. She turned back to Tom, only to find that he was still looking at her. Their eyes met, and this time she didn't look away.

Riddle was the first to break the sudden stillness that had fallen between them. "You see?" he said, very quietly. "Your blood knows."

Constance's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?" she asked, half-sorry, half-relieved that the moment between them – whatever it was - had been lost. "Knows what?"

Tom Riddle looked away from her, over to the staff table. "No matter," he said blandly. She was about to probe further when she noticed his eyes narrow. The boy leaned forwards slightly, staring more closely at the staff table.

"What is it?" Constance asked curiously. Her gaze followed his to the staff table, alighting on Professor Haven. The Divination teacher looked as though she was about to collapse, swaying backwards rather noticeably. Even from a distance, her disorientation was obvious. "Is she _drunk_?" she asked, surprised.

"Not drunk, no," replied Tom with an air of certainty. "But she _really_ shouldn't be here tonight – not like this –" he broke off, watching the Divination teacher intently. "Unless –" he broke off, sharply.

"Unless what? What's wrong with her?" Constance demanded, her insatiable curiosity never far from bubbling over. Up at the staff table, she saw her uncle place a steadying hand on Haven's back. Several of the staff had noticed the Divination teacher's behaviour, and were wearing expressions of varying degrees of concern. As they watched, Professor Haven suddenly started shuddering, her hands clenched so tightly around her goblet that her knuckles turned white. Wine splashed onto the table as her shuddering increased in violence. It looked for all the world as though someone had put her under the Tremens hex, Constance thought. There was a growing murmur of anxiety as the other students in the Hall took in the Divination teacher's apparent sickness.

"What's wrong with _her_?" Richard asked, turning from Teresa and Aurelius to stare at the shaking teacher.

"I think she's going to See," Tom answered, his voice barely above a whisper. There was a distinct note of excitement in his voice, causing Constance to look at him closely. Riddle's expression was rapt as he watched the Divination teacher's eyes roll back horribly in her head. Professor Dumbledore had obviously reached the same conclusion, and was clearing a space in front of the red haired woman, removing breakable objects, whilst Octavius Malfoy shot vicious glares at the various students who were beginning to laugh nervously. 

The Headmaster rose to his feet again. _Probably about to dismiss us_, Constance thought sourly. She was suddenly very eager to know what Haven would See. Before Dippet could say anything, though, another voice sliced through the air. It silenced everybody immediately. 

__

"The danger comes from within."

Constance flinched involuntarily – although it was Professor Haven speaking, the voice was not her own. It was flat, metallic, harsh. Grating, and oddly disjointed, as though many voices were speaking as one. Looking around the Hall, she saw frightened expressions on many of the younger students' faces. And the teachers didn't look much better - Professor Bloom looked petrified. Although Constance prided herself on self-control, for once she didn't blame them – reading about the experiences of Seers didn't really prepare one for a live performance. Her uncle, on the other hand, was displaying the kind of scowl that would have beaten a Basilisk into submission.

"_It comes from within,_" the Divination teacher continued, speaking into the deathly silence of the Great Hall, her distorted voice echoing horribly._ "Old blood calls to young, and the faithful servants will keep their ancient promises." _

The voice paused. There were several anxious giggles from the first years, but these died away quickly in the face of the overwhelming tension. Constance herself hardly dared to breathe. Next to her, she sensed the utter rigidity of Riddle's posture. _Even he can't deny the drama of the moment. _

"The Lord of Webs sends out the Call, but it is the other who oversees the Forging." The Divination teacher's eyes had rolled right back into her head, only the whites visible. Her face contorted into a hideous grimace of agony as she continued._ "The Day of the Lords approaches. The Dark is rising…but the danger is within…" _

The room was completely still as the harsh voice faltered. There was a moment of total silence, and then an awful wail burst from the Divination teacher, an inhuman keening that rose steadily in pitch until it was almost too much to bear. Her body started to jerk and flail wildly, until both Octavius Malfoy and Albus Dumbledore restrained her. Several students clasped their hands over their ears as the wail continued. The noise ended only when Professor Haven's entire body slumped forwards. Supporting the Divination teacher with his arms, Constance's uncle exchanged a few inaudible words with both Dippet and Dumbledore. _So that is what it is to See_, she thought. _Not an easy gift at all. _

As the Great Hall erupted into frantic chattering and wild speculation, the Headmaster begged for silence. He had to amplify his voice to cut across the noise. He looked fairly shaken by what had just happened, Constance saw, but the calm presence of the Transfiguration teacher seemed to reassure him. Not for the first time, she wondered about Albus Dumbledore. _The power behind the throne_, she thought, and had to resist the urge to scoff. Although Dippet _was_ pretty ineffectual at the best of times, he didn't share any of Dumbledore's eccentricities. For which small mercy she was truly thankful.

As the Headmaster urged the students to remain calm, and quietly return to their common rooms once they'd finished eating, Constance exhaled deeply. She realized that she'd been holding her breath for quite some time. Aurelius, sitting on her right, did the same. 

"That was _freaky_!" Richard whispered in awe. "You'd never see Lockhart doing that!" he added, appreciatively.

"We're all doomed," Teresa said, her voice anxious. "You heard what she said. We're completely _buggered_."

"You still think Divination's a load of crap, Aurelius?" Richard asked, turning to the other boy, but Aurelius was silent, staring as his cousin helped Octavius Malfoy carry Professor Haven out of the Hall. His black eyes were unreadable as he stood up, preparing to leave.

As the prefects began to lead their Houses out of the Great Hall, Constance looked sideways at Tom Riddle. Although he was usually a conscientious prefect, he appeared completely oblivious to the chaos of the departing students around him. Like Aurelius, the half-blood had been watching Haven's departure, yet unlike Aurelius, Riddle looked animated by the scene. His lips were parted slightly and a deep, thoughtful crease marked his brow. His hands were clasped tightly before him, as though he was praying, and his cheeks, usually pale, were flushed. His vivid eyes gleaming – he looked suddenly vibrant, very much alive. Sensing her gaze, he turned to her, and treated her to a genuine smile. It made him look a lot younger, she noted, although she wasn't sure exactly what he was so happy about. She had to admit that it had been exciting, seeing a true Seer in action at last. A once in a lifetime experience, no doubt.

"Hadn't we better leave?" she asked, in answer to his raised eyebrow. The majority of students had already left – the teachers too were beginning to file out, deep in conversation. Her brother was nowhere in sight. _And I've still got no idea what he's up to_, she thought ruefully. "We have to get back to the common room."

At that, the dark haired boy rose gracefully from his seat. "Have you got a good memory?" he asked.

Taken aback by his apparent irrelevance, she blinked. "For some things, yes," she replied, mystified. "What do you want to know that for?"

"Then do you remember what Haven said?" he continued. "The exact words?"

She frowned, considering this. "Yes," she said. "I do."

"Good," the halfblood said, satisfied. "That's very good."

"Why do you want to know?" Constance asked, tired of beating around the bush. She had to catch up with her brother and find out what was happening. She glanced around the Great Hall, and saw that they were the only two people left. _So much for Marcus' efficiency_, she thought, with some annoyance.

"Because I have a message for you," Tom Marvolo Riddle said softly. "From your brother. And I'm only going to repeat it once."

Her eyes widened in surprise as she waited silently for him to continue. _Marcus trusts him with this?_ Her surprise grew even more, as, in a voice so low as to be almost inaudible, the dark haired prefect told her something _very_ important about one of the corridors on the third floor. Refusing to answer any of her startled questions, he simply told her that Marcus would expect her at eleven thirty that very night. _Salazar's Heir, he knows more about my affairs than I do_, she realized in amazement. She watched in fascination as Tom Marvolo Riddle swept out of the Great Hall, leaving her alone with her thoughts, in the light of the flickering candles, under the enchanted sky.

*****

Notes to Reviewers

Minerva McTabby: Well - after reading _your_ story, I couldn't possibly call Tom's grandfather anything but Julius. And yes, it's THAT Marlowe. And I really, _really_ like your Lott - in all possible senses. The _Dark Side of the Moon_ is loosely based on "Madame Min's House of Mirth" from Kaz's "Falling Further In" – although that establishment is far more reputable and does not employ vampires. 

Faith Accompli: thuh sewner yew dye thuh behta 4 thuh wurldd. Only joking. But you'll have to wait for Riddlesex I'm afraid. Unless you care to write _your_ chapter eight, that is. Hint, hint.

Mustardseed: You mean you even like _Seraphim_? I have to resist the urge to throttle him every time he's in a scene. Apart from that, thank you so much for your nice, long review. 

Textualsphinx: I'm wondering that too! I had their fates all planned out, but Aurelius is being difficult.

TheStrangeOne: I should probably stop watching TV whilst writing chapters, but … I'm too weak. I'm already planning a Masked Ball at Malfoy Manor, just like that scene in Labyrinth…*witters away in this vein for quite some time*.

LadyLaCroix: Thank you for your review, hope you liked this chapter. It's the hardest one I've had to write. And I have _issues_ with it.

RoseFlame: Ta muchly, Packsister. Svent away.

Aldalindil: I've just read your chapter eight and although I've still to review it…I liked it lots. Thanks a lot for the review - I value your opinion.


	12. Dangerous Liaisons

****

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. With the exception of Tom Riddle, Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall Professor Binns and Armando Dippet, the characters belong to me. The descendants of the Malfoys, Snapes, Blacks and Potters belong to J K Rowling, but I'm sure you could figure that out for yourself. 

****

Acknowledgements: to Robin Hobb, for elfbark and stipple leaf. The title of this chapter comes from the book by Laclos. (Alan Rickman as Valmont, anyone?) _Quidditch In Bed_ belongs to textualsphinx, and is a most divine creation. I borrowed the Contragravida potion from Faith Accompli, who graciously beta read this chapter for me, as did Veruka.

The Serpentine Chain Part One

Chapter Twelve – Dangerous Liaisons

Quintus Snape had obeyed Octavius Malfoy's peremptory request for aid in carrying the Divination teacher out of the Hall. Unconscious, she had been a lot heavier than she looked, but Octavius Malfoy had flatly refused to allow Quintus to conjure a stretcher. Loosening the collar of her robes, he'd explained why.

"After Seeing, the body is highly sensitive to magical vibrations," he'd said tersely. "She'll be vomiting for hours if we cast any spells near or around her. So don't." With that, he'd taken the Divination teacher out of Quintus' grasp as if she'd weighed virtually nothing, and began to walk down the corridor as swiftly as possible. 

"You're not taking her to the Hospital wing?" Quintus asked unnecessarily, as the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher was heading in the opposite direction.

"I'm taking her back to her room," Octavius had replied shortly. The woman in his arms stirred, as if about to wake, but as the two men looked at her, she fell back into her stupor.

"Is that wise?" Quintus began, hesitantly.

Octavius Malfoy cut him off abruptly. "It's what she'd _want_," the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher said. "I have done this before, you know," he'd added, less irritably. 

"Ah," Quintus said. "What do you want me to do, then? I can fetch a couple of nausea relief potions, if it'll help at all."

Octavius Malfoy hesitated momentarily. "No," he'd said finally. "She has her own supply of potions – but I believe they're unlabelled. You can ensure she takes the right one."

The Potions master nodded, accepting that it was the closest Octavius Malfoy would ever get to actually _asking_ for assistance, and followed the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher down a narrow corridor. He had to help support Elspeth Haven as they climbed several flights of steps and along a short passage that led to a small white door. Certain things finally fell into place for Quintus as he heard Octavius murmur the woman's password – _Tiresias _– in order to open her chambers. Quintus had to suppress a smile. Octavius Malfoy wasn't into public demonstrations of affection, and doubtless _didn't_ want the world to know about his relationship with the Divination teacher. It explained his irritability somewhat. The Potions master had been rather flattered to know that Octavius, and by extension, Elspeth, trusted him enough to keep quiet – even though it was only out of necessity. 

He was smirking at the thought of what the likes of Seraphim would have had to say about the two teachers' relationship when Elspeth Haven's door slid open silently. Quintus blinked, taken aback by the overwhelming _whiteness_ of the Divination teacher's rooms. The stone walls had been covered with sheets of white fabric, the thick carpet on the floor was white, and even the furniture had been painted white. A large crystal ball stood balanced on a whitewashed wooden cube, in the centre of the room. The only colour in the room was that of the startlingly red flower petals in a wide china bowl on top of the chest of drawers, as well as the brightly coloured fish that swam in a clear glass case. He paused by the doorway, contemplating the austere purity of the room, until Octavius snapped at him to help. Together, they deposited the drowsy Divination teacher on her bed as gently as possible. And the bed, too, was white, with white blankets and a white headboard, Quintus couldn't help but note. Her red hair fanned out across the pillows as they lay her down, in stark contrast with the pale fabric and her chalky skin. 

"Where are her potions?" he asked quietly, feeling rather uncomfortable at being in Elspeth Haven's bedroom. Although it was a beautiful room, its alien severity had unnerved him, and he thought wistfully of his own rather cluttered quarters, with the piles of books that lay scattered about his floor, the rugs and throws that kept out the cold. And he wouldn't see his bed for another few hours – he'd still to meet with Aurelius in less than half an hour's time. 

Instead of answering, the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher strode over to the chest of drawers, and pulled a small box from the second drawer. His familiarity with the contents of Elspeth Haven's room didn't escape Quintus' notice either, but he refrained from commenting upon this as Octavius removed several bottles from the box.

"Here," Octavius Malfoy said, holding out a number of unlabelled bottles to Quintus. "I don't know what they are, and I don't want to give her the wrong one."

Quintus held the bottles up to the light to check their colour before carefully uncorking the largest, which contained a sickly green fluid. The bitter scent of stipple leaf mingled with pennyroyal enlightened him. Contragravida. Of course. Stipple leaf and pennyroyal had various uses, but when combined they formed a rather powerful contraceptive potion. Although Quintus was certainly no prude, there were some things he didn't want to think about when the two people concerned were present. Although being in a bedroom with the pair of them certainly made that a lot harder. He turned his attention to the other bottles, quickly. 

There was a faint murmur from the bed as Elspeth Haven woke up. She looked decidedly hazy, her eyes unfocussed as she tried to sit up. The effort proved considerable, and she clutched her head almost immediately, wincing in pain. As she raised her left arm, the sleeve of her robes slipped down slightly. Quintus, looking up from the potions, saw an intricate pattern of what looked like spiderwebs decorating her arm – he couldn't make out the details, but they looked beautiful, twining around her forearm. 

Octavius Malfoy was by her side instantly, obscuring the strange design as he placed his arm around her shoulders. "Don't even think about vomiting on my robes," he warned her, tilting her head slightly. "_Are_ you going to be sick?"

"Bucket," she said, by way of an answer. "_Now_."

"Try this instead," Quintus said, as the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher grimaced. He held out a large bottle containing an unappealing dark liquid. _Elfbark, ginger, nettle, diluted asphodel._ "Four drops," he told Octavius, who took the bottle and removed the dropping pipette.

"Open your mouth," Octavius Malfoy said, and as the woman did so, he added, "You gave the entire school a very nice performance, in case you were wondering."

The Divination teacher glared at him with as much dignity as possible, considering her mouth was wide open and there was a dropping pipette inside it.

"And why on _earth_ didn't you label these? After what happened last time?" the blonde man continued, the sharpness of his words undermined by the sardonic amusement in his eyes. He put the pipette back into the bottle, and handed it back to Quintus with a nod of thanks.

"I forgot," Elspeth said, wincing at the foul taste of the potion. Her voice was somewhat unsteady, and her words slurred together. "I lead a busy life with many commitments, after all." There was a brief silence as the woman allowed the potion to take effect, then she added, "I didn't predict anyone's _death_, did I?"

The Defence against the Dark Arts teacher sighed. "No."

"Shame," the Divination teacher said. Quintus wasn't entirely sure whether she was joking. She sounded slightly drunk as she added; "I haven't managed _that_ for years."

"You did, however, manage to terrify the entire school," Octavius said caustically. "Which is an impressive achievement in anybody's book."

Elspeth Haven closed her eyes, a study in resignation. "Tell me all the gory details, then."

"Later," the blonde man said with a quick frown flickering over his patrician features.

"Perhaps you should try to sleep," Quintus suggested, just to remind them of his presence. He felt remarkably awkward in their presence. A sensation he wasn't used to, and didn't like. 

The Divination teacher smiled, opening one eye to look at him. A lazy, languid hand trailed over her bed. "Unfortunately, that's not possible now I've … woken up. Side effects of visioning." She turned her attention to Octavius, her voice low. "_You_ know what I mean."

Octavius Malfoy's smile was predatory. "Of course," he replied.

Quintus, his mouth dry, told himself that he really _didn't_ want to discover the side effects of visioning firsthand. _Not in the slightest. _Checking his watch – only ten minutes until his meeting with Aurelius – he cleared his throat. "I'd better go," he said, aware of the unnatural pitch of his voice, and deliberately _not_ looking at the Divination teacher.

The Defence against the Dark Arts teacher gave him an amused glance, but simply asked him to replace the potion bottles in the box.

"Leave the green one out," Elspeth Haven said, smiling a very catlike smile at Quintus. He became aware that he was still holding the Contragravida potion, and even more aware of the physical presence of both Octavius and the woman.

As he left the room, he realized that he would find it incredibly hard to concentrate on his meeting with Aurelius. Quintus cursed himself for being so easily distracted. _Although Octavius Malfoy and Elspeth Haven are enough to distract anyone_, he thought ruefully. Grindelwald and the Ministry were the last things on his mind, now. Then he wondered whether that had not, in fact, been Octavius Malfoy's purpose all along.

*

As she climbed swiftly up a small, little-used flight of stairs, she was aware of a slight sensation of unease within her. Constance quelled it firmly, an easier task than she'd expected – anticipation and excitement were running too strongly through her veins for anxiety to take a firm grip on her nerves. Malfoy business was usually conducted in secret at the best of times, and the dark hours created an air of secrecy and mystery that rather appealed to her more imaginative side. Constance wasn't worried about being discovered. Octavius Malfoy had taught both her and her brother a dozen different Concealing Charms years ago – getting caught wouldn't just be humiliating, it'd be an insult to their uncle's teaching methods. Her safety was further guaranteed by the fact that Pringle had tended to concentrate mainly on patrolling the more popular forbidden areas of the school - the supposedly romantic areas such as the Astronomy tower, and, of course, the library. The disused corridors on the third floor were the first stage in _her_ journey, though, and they weren't of any real interest to the student body. Constance grinned inwardly. Tom Marvolo Riddle had told her otherwise, and the third floor suddenly seemed _very_ interesting indeed. 

Halfway down one of the corridors on the third floor, she paused; looking at a dusty old candlestick that had been placed in a small alcove in the wall. Chewing her lip thoughtfully, she glanced down the corridor in momentary indecision. But Tom Riddle's instructions had been precise, and so she took hold of the candlestick with her free hand, and tapped it three times with her wand. He'd given her the password in the Great Hall, and as she murmured "_Meursault_" to the candlestick she wondered yet again what it meant. The Slytherin half-blood had just ignored her when she'd raised an inquisitive eyebrow. He hadn't answered any of her questions, for that matter – she'd given into her burning curiosity and had asked him if he would be there at her meeting with Marcus, and why Marcus wasn't telling her this himself – but Tom Riddle had just smiled faintly and carried on with his directions. 

As soon as she'd spoken, the section of wall and floor where she was standing suddenly revolved, rapidly, causing her to clutch more tightly to the candlestick. Her stomach lurched unpleasantly, in a sensation not entirely dissimilar to that caused by Floo Powder. Steadying herself, she realized with a deep feeling of glee that she was now standing on the _other_ side of the wall, in a corridor filled with rich, luxurious looking tapestries. She recognized one as being an early depiction of Merlin, and another as being a portrait of the Founders. Unlike the paintings in the castle proper, though, these ones didn't move. _Must have been done before they invented the Animus Charm_, she thought incredulously. _They must be so old…_

Although she'd known about this for a few hours, now, she was still amazed to discover that she was in a completely secret area of the castle. _Like a child with a new toy_, she thought, not bothering to wipe the delighted smile off her face. She was well aware that Hogwarts was riddled with secret rooms and passages – according to legend, Salazar Slytherin himself had built his own Chamber of Secrets – but she'd never actually been in one before. _How the hell did Marcus find this? And why does Tom know? _For a brief moment, she wondered whether this was the legendary Chamber of Secrets, but decided against it. It wasn't a chamber, for starters. It was too big. _A secret wing, and it's all mine_, Constance thought gleefully. _Well. Ours. _She imagined it could come in very useful. In fact, she could see that it had tremendous potential. The prospect pleased her so much that she was actually in serious danger of laughing out loud. Secret things were always, always seductive. Glamorous. Part of the reason why being a Slytherin was such fun. Trading in secrets was the ultimate game.

Constance allowed herself a moment of sheer fantasy, then snorted at her juvenile behaviour. She was always letting her imagination run riot, just as Aurelius liked to put a romantic slant on everything. Flaws, she decided. Pragmatism and realism were what was needed in life, not fantasy. She needed to know who had built this secret wing, how Marcus and Tom had found it, and how many other people know about it. _Octavius, maybe_, she thought suddenly, and instantly remembered the real purpose of her desire to take lessons from Marcus. Her plan was paying off already, and they hadn't even _done_ anything yet. _Screw you, Seraphim,_ she thought viciously,_ forbidden fruit tastes nicer. Bad blood be damned._

The room in which they'd arranged to meet wasn't far, according to what Tom had told her. She had ten minutes before she was supposed to meet her brother, and so Constance decided to take her time, stopping and looking at various portraits and sculptures on the way. Occasionally, she reached out and touched one, reveling in the feel of the rich velvet that had somehow remained undecayed. She wondered if Marcus or maybe Tom had used Restorative Charms on them, but doubted it. The thought would never have crossed Marcus' mind, and she didn't really see Tom as the type to get overly sentimental about tapestries. She snickered at the mental image of Tom Riddle sewing, and then breathed in deliberately slowly, to calm herself. Giddiness would get her nowhere.

When she finally reached the room Riddle had told her about, she paused, suddenly uncertain. She adjusted her hold on her wand, gripping it tightly, relishing the familiar feel of the cool, polished wood. _Yew and unicorn hair, nine inches_. It was a good wand, even though she was naturally quite biased, one that responded swiftly to her commands. She'd need it to be good. With the shrug that was characteristic of her, she opened the door. Every nerve in her body was jangling, in anticipation of some violently painful curse or hex – it would be just like Marcus to attack without warning – and so it came as rather an anticlimax when nothing happened. Without lowering her wand, or her defenses, she looked carefully around the room. It appeared deserted – no carpets, furniture, no wall hangings, no windows. Just plain stone. It was how she imagined a cell in Azkaban would look.

The hearth, by the looks of it, hadn't seen a fire for years – grey white ash was scattered on the cold tiles by the grate. Constance could feel goosebumps rising on her flesh, even the hair on the back of her neck prickled. It was freezing. Colder inside than it had been out in the corridor. It was the cold that warned her. This cold wasn't simply the absence of heat, but a palpable presence that she could feel pressing down on her and causing her fingers to tremble with the sickening chill, all these were, of course, the classic indications of the presence of a Glamour, and if she was right, this one was deceiving the senses by emphasizing the cold, and if she concentrated, she could hear the sounds of flames crackling in the empty fireplace, and she frowned as she tried to remember the counter curse –

"Desere, umbra reproba visceris!"

A cheery fire burned brightly in the hearth. Books lined the richly decorated room, shelves reaching almost to the ceiling. A thick maroon carpet was underfoot, she noticed, and there was a desk on the other side of the room. It was covered in papers, and a thin black leather book lay to one side. A book that looked somewhat familiar, too, she thought, remembering the morning in the library. It was Tom Riddle's – so _he'd_ been here too, and recently. There was no sign of him, though. And none of Marcus. She cast a few Revealing Charms, to see if they were hiding, but to no avail. The room _was_ empty. 

She scowled, wondering why on earth they hadn't bothered to turn up and moved over to the desk. Perhaps her brother had left her a note. Glancing at the papers, she saw that some of the scrolls were written in Ancient languages – she recognized a few as Chalcedean, others as Egyptian. There wasn't anything that looked like a message for her, so she turned to Riddle's black book. Lightly running a finger down the cover, she realized from the date that it was, in actuality, a diary. 

A mischievous grin spread across her face as she wondered just what Riddle would _write_ in such a book. W_oke up. Was brilliant. Was enigmatic. Went to sleep. _She couldn't see him writing the kind of sentimental rubbish Teresa wrote in _hers_, and the thought of discovering the dark haired boy's inner life was very compelling_. I might be in it, _she thought suddenly, and so, completely unfazed by her lack of scruples, she opened the book. It was disappointingly empty, and no spell she cast upon it managed to reveal the things she felt sure that Riddle had hidden. _Clever git_, she thought with admiration. Impulsively, she picked up a quill from the desk, wanting to mark the pure white paper in some way_. It'll teach him to leave things lying around where anybody can find them_, she thought, conveniently overlooking the fact that not only was the book in a secret part of the castle, she'd not actually been able to find anything in it. 

In her best handwriting, she wrote, "_An inquisitive mind is a joy forever_". After adding a flourish to the tail of the "y", she took the quill away, admiring her handiwork. Almost immediately, though, her eyes widened in disbelief as the ink started to reform, shaping words she'd certainly never written.

And curiosity killed the cat, Constance.

She recognized Tom Riddle's neatly slanted handwriting. _I might've known he wouldn't have had a normal diary, _she thought, smiling down at the page.

__

"I'm not a cat," she wrote back, for want of anything better to say. She wasn't entirely sure of the correct etiquette in talking to someone else's diary, anyway. And how did he know it was her?

Would you rather I called you a nosy cow? Because I'm perfectly willing to oblige.

She could almost hear Tom's low voice as she read the words that had formed on the page. She was impressed – enchanting diaries wasn't exactly something you'd learn in sixth year Charms. Constance wondered how he'd done it, and whether he'd know she'd been writing in it. _It'll probably tell him next time he uses it_, she thought.

__

"How do you know who I am?" she asked, wondering whether it had been charmed to recognize her handwriting.

Because I knew you'd be coming. Your brother told me that you had no respect for other people's privacy – rather complimentary for a Slytherin, don't you think?

__

"Marcus wrote to you?" she wrote. _Talk about stating the obvious, Constance_, she thought.

About half an hour ago. He said you'd be the next person to write in me. 

__

"Do you know where he is?" Constance stared at the page, brow furrowed. Typical Marcus. Making it easy for her would probably have killed him. _I really should have set off earlier_, she thought.

Take the book entitled "The Devils" out of the bookcase behind the desk, and you'll find out for yourself. The bookcase moves, you see. And take me with you when you go. My real self will be wanting me.

__

"Your real self?"

Tom Marvolo Riddle. I am he, and he is me, except I'm a diary and he – isn't.

__

"How so?" Constance asked. Had Riddle managed to put himself into the diary somehow? That wasn't just remarkable, it was amazing. _I wonder what it's like writing to yourself_, she thought, and then, _talking to him this way is much less difficult. Although just as confusing._

There was definitely a hint of impatience in the diary's response. I'm sure I'll tell you in the flesh. I am in the other room with your brother, after all. Speaking of which, aren't you late?

"_True_," she admitted. "_I'll see you later then_."

There was no response, and so she hurried over to the bookshelf, Riddle's diary tucked under one arm. It didn't take her long to find the book – it was slightly out of place anyway, jutting out from the others beside it – _Crime and Punishment, The Idiot_, _The Brothers Karamazov _on one side, _Dead Souls, Anna Karenina_, and _War and Peace _on the other. 

When she'd pulled the book out, there was a horrible grinding sound, and then the entire bookshelf swung backwards. The room before her was very small, cosy almost – several fat armchairs had been drawn up by the fire. Both her brother and Tom Riddle were there; sitting curled up by the fire with cups of tea. The dark haired boy looked at her piercingly, but didn't speak.

"About time," her brother said sourly. "Could you have _been_ any slower?" 

"I wasn't expecting cryptic clues in a magic diary," she replied, equally acidly.

Marcus snorted. "That much is obvious," he said.

She noticed that several spyglasses had been placed around the room – she could see the corridor where she'd disabled her brother's charms, the room she'd just been in, and various other places around the castle. "You were _watching_ me?" she asked. "All the time? That's so rude!"

"Almost an invasion of privacy, wouldn't you say?" Tom Marvolo Riddle asked softly, his eyes on the diary under her arm. 

She was instantly embarrassed, realizing he'd seen her writing in _his_ diary. "Erm. Quite." She offered him his diary, apologetically. 

Tom stared at her for a moment longer, allowing an uncomfortable silence to build up. She shifted uncomfortably under his intense gaze, his eyes almost green in the firelight. The diary was still in her outstretched hand. Her brother looked away, into the fire, and she realized that for some reason, support from Marcus would not be forthcoming.

Then Tom smiled, relieving the tension. "It's alright," he said, taking the book from her and putting it beside him on the chair. "We _were_ counting on your inquisitive nature after all."

"She _is_ a Malfoy," Marcus murmured, not looking away from the flames in the hearth. Constance remembered that _he'd_ told the diary she was coming. "We'd expect no less."

Tom's eyes darted away from Constance, to her brother. "Exactly," he said, and took a sip of his tea. "Do you want a drink?"

She realized he was speaking to her. "Yes please," she said, aware that she was actually quite thirsty.

Marcus turned away from the fire. "Pour it yourself then," he said, not unkindly, gesturing towards the teapot on the little bow-legged table. There was a plate of Rich Tea biscuits beside it. "And pull up a chair."

When she was comfortably seated, she watched the steam rising from her teacup for a few moments before speaking again. "Well," she said. "I have a few burning questions for you both and so, without further ado: where, exactly, are we in relation to the rest of Hogwarts, how did you find it, who else knows, and do you do anything other than drink tea in secret wings of the castle?"

"Sometimes we drink coffee," Marcus offered lightly. "Filthy muck that it is."

Tom nodded seriously. "There's a war on, if you hadn't noticed. Earl Grey tea is hard to come by."

She sneered in the general direction of them both, and took a bite out of her biscuit. "What is this place?" she asked, deciding that they obviously couldn't cope with more than one question at a time. 

There was a brief pause as the two boys looked at each other. She was disconcerted to realize that they were deciding how much to tell her, equally disconcerted to realize that Marcus' loyalties appeared to lie with Tom rather than her. _What is going on?_

It was Riddle who answered, his face wreathed in the steam of his tea. "This place," he said quietly, "is _mine_. It was built for my family shortly before Salazar Slytherin left Hogwarts, and it's been ours ever since."

"Your family? Why?" Constance asked, staring as the dark haired halfblood cupped his hands around his drink. "I take it this _isn't_ the Chamber of Secrets then?"

"He owed us a favour," Tom said flatly. "And you're right, this isn't the Chamber of Secrets. This is the Zalaras Wing."

Aware that she was probing, and aware that the Zalaras family did not need to spill their secrets to the Malfoy family, she asked anyway, "What kind of favour?"

Although her brother gave her a warning look, Tom Marvolo Riddle merely smiled serenely. "Curiosity killed the cat, Constance," he said delicately. 

"So I've been told," she replied, grinning. "Then who else knows about this place – the Zalaras wing?"

"Apart from your brother and I?" the son of Styliane Zalaras asked. "Felix DuPré. Regal Rosier. Your uncle. And," he said, in rather different tone of voice, "Albus Dumbledore."

"Dumbledore!?" she repeated, incredulously, whilst noting that her uncle seemed to be involved with both Marcus _and_ Riddle. She knew the other two boys only through Marcus - Regal Rosier and the Head Boy had been part of her brother's elite clique of friends for quite some time. Although she liked Felix, Regal sometimes made her uncomfortable with the way he looked at her. Never blatantly enough to justify drawing Marcus' attention to it, though. She returned to the disturbing thought of Albus Dumbledore being on friendly terms with her brother and Tom Riddle. "You have late night tea and biscuits with _Dumbledore_?"

Her brother looked at her seriously. "He prefers Chocolate Frogs, actually. He eats more than _you _do, and that's really saying something."

"You are _joking,_ aren't you?" Constance asked, glaring at him but otherwise ignoring the gibe. "I mean - _Dumbledore_? The jocular, jovial, jesting, jolly old Gryffindor sage? Otherwise known as He Whose Eyes Never Stop Twinkling?"

"I said he knows about this place," Tom replied calmly. "I didn't say he'd _been_ here. He knows it exists, but I doubt he could find it, and I'm certainly not planning on inviting him in for tea any time soon. Or anything else, for that matter."

Constance breathed a sigh of mock relief. "You two had me worried, for a moment," she said. "I thought you were going _soft_."

"I don't think that's something you'll have to worry about," Riddle said dryly. "Ever."

"How did you find it?" she asked then, aware that Riddle had never known his mother, having been raised in an orphanage. She wondered if she was touching on a dangerous subject.

"A long story," the halfblood said, in a tone that clearly said _not now_.

There was a momentary silence, during which Constance took another biscuit from the table. "Well. Although I don't wish to seem pushy," she began, and paused, uncertain of how best to continue.

"Or _greedy_," Marcus sniped, giving the half-empty plate of biscuits a meaningful glance.

"Oh, just die," Constance said, smiling. "But lovely as tea and biscuits are, I'm sure we'd planned a little light exercise for tonight."

"You're wondering about your lessons?" her brother said, all seriousness.

"Well, not to put _too_ fine a point on it: yes," she replied. "I thought they'd be starting tonight."

"And they will be," Marcus said blandly. 

"When?" she asked, looking uncertainly at Riddle. Would _he_ be a part of these lessons? She wasn't sure whether that would be a good thing – although she had to admit she was dying to find out what _he'd_ be like in a duel. Although the halfblood had undoubtedly seen the curiosity in her eyes, he did not seem willing to assuage it, and she was reluctant to ask outright. "Now?"

Her brother smiled at her obvious impatience, then set his teacup down carefully upon the table. He shot a glance at Tom Riddle, but the dark haired boy was no longer paying attention. He'd taken a quill from his robes, and was writing in his diary. Constance was wondering whether he and his diary-self were talking about her, and was beginning to feel rather embarrassed, when Marcus stood up.

"Are you ready then, my stubborn sister?" he asked her, frowning slightly as he took out his wand. 

Instead of answering, she put her cup down and stood up, the anticipation she'd felt earlier returning full force. There was no such sign of eagerness in her brother's face, though. His face impassive, he looked rather grim as he headed over to a door that she hadn't noticed until then.

Tom looked up from the diary, giving her a shrewd, critical glance before offering her good luck in a faintly ironic fashion. As she followed Marcus into what turned out to be a bare room with padded walls, she wondered just how much luck she'd need.

*

It turned out to be quite a lot, as she realized less than half an hour later. Her brother had just hit her full force with a series of incredibly painful and quite probably illegal hexes – the Heart Squeezing Hex and the Throat Contracting Jinx - and she'd been completely unable to block them. He'd only maintained the spells for a few seconds before releasing her, but it was quite enough_. So this is what a heart attack feels like_, Constance had thought just before collapsing. 

It seemed that Marcus had improved drastically since they'd last fought, during the summer holidays. Then, they'd been on an almost equal footing, but his sessions with their uncle had obviously given him an edge. His defenses were impeccable; very few of the curses she'd flung at him had actually hit their target. He'd also picked up a lot of curses that she'd never learned, even after the research she'd done in preparation for this. A particularly unpleasant Egyptian Slow Strangling Curse - one that was often used in the pyramids, she remembered – had been the first curse he'd used. She knew perfectly well that that curse, along with some of the more familiar ones, had been outlawed in 1909. And Marcus knew that she knew this. Constance had wondered whether her less than scrupulous brother had ever managed the Unforgivables, if Octavius had taught him. 

He'd tried before, when he was twelve. Their mother had caught him trying to put one of the house-elves under a very weak Imperius curse. Cecilia Malfoy, née Zabini, had responded to the situation with a typical lack of effectiveness, slapping Marcus about the head until their father, alerted by the screeches of Dobby the panicked house-elf, ordered them both into his private study. Even though she'd eavesdropped, Constance hadn't been able to make out what had been said, and Marcus never told her.

"_Enervate_," her brother said, and Constance felt a surge of energy flood through her. She knew it was artificial, that it wouldn't last, and she'd feel even worse once it wore off, but she was grateful for it anyway. She'd never been this badly beaten in a duel before, and hated it. She and Marcus had always been competitive – another reason they'd not stuck closely together at school. One Malfoy per Slytherin clique was quite enough.

"Do you want a rest?" Marcus asked her, his voice as entirely free from fraternal concern as ever. 

Constance rolled onto her side, and decided that even though she _hated _losing, getting up was far too complex a process at that moment. She coughed, feeling sure that one of Marcus' earlier hits had done something to her lungs. Hopefully, it had done no permanent damage._ I'll make damn sure I haunt him the rest of his life if I end up dying from this, _she thought venomously.

"A rest would be nice," she admitted, the words almost choking her. "You _utter_ bastard."

Marcus looked insufferably pleased with himself. "I don't think our parents would like that sort of language, do you?" 

Constance said something that would have had their mother covering her ears in horror. "I can see why _your_ marks have gone up," she added.

"I've had lessons from the master," her brother said, almost pensively. He sat down beside her, spinning his wand in circles on the floor.

"I'm sure you've done him proud tonight," she said, wincing as she tried to sit up. "Oh bloody hell, that hurts."

Marcus sighed. "Stop whining, and stay still. It's a lot less painful.," he suggested. "I speak from personal experience," he added, his voice lowering as he contemplated some not so distant memory.

"Uncle Octavius got you good and proper, then?" Constance said with satisfaction.

Her brother frowned, and seemed about to say something but thought better of it as the door opened and Tom Riddle entered.

Constance noticed her brother's face change subtly, but couldn't say how, or why. She felt remarkably stupid lying on the floor under Riddle's cool unreadable gaze.

"It's quarter past one," the heir to the Zalaras Wing said, his voice expressionless.

Marcus nodded, then turned to Constance, hauling her to her feet as he stood up. "Time's up," he said lightly. "I have other things to do tonight," he added. "I lead a busy life."

"Fair enough," she murmured, inwardly grateful. She ached everywhere, and Marcus, damn him, looked completely bloody unscathed by the experience. Standing up unsupported was rather difficult, she found, wondering how on earth she was going to get back to the dormitory.

"I can walk you back to the common room," Tom Riddle said, almost as if he'd read her mind. His turquoise eyes lingered on her, then turned to Marcus. "If you don't mind?"

From another person, Constance thought, that could have been seen as a challenge. Her brother would not have permitted it from the likes of Regal Rosier – but Tom's voice was carefully free from any inflexion, deliberately ambiguous.

Marcus addressed the dark haired boy quietly. "If you go, I'll have to stay here tonight," he said. It was only half a statement. "I have work to do, and I'll need to use some of the books you have here."

As Tom Riddle nodded, acknowledging her brother's request, Constance gazed at him thoughtfully. It was odd to realize that Tom Riddle's wizarding blood was just as good as her own family's, Constance thought. For some reason, Marcus had decided to overlook Riddle's Muggle father, and was treating the boy as an equal. She made a mental note to actually _read_ her copy of _Wizarding Families in England and Europe _as soon as possible.

The two Malfoys followed Riddle through the chamber where they'd had tea, back into the book-filled room. Marcus seated himself at the paper-strewn desk, after picking a copy of_ Quidditch In Bed_ from one of the shelves.

"What're _you_ up to?" Constance asked, eyeing the book suspiciously. "Actually, I don't want to know," she added hastily. Her brother's sex life was _not_ something she wanted to consider in great detail – but she could still tease him. "Just remember, Aurelius can whip you up a nice contraceptive potion if you ask him nicely –"

"_Goodnight_, Constance," her brother said, cutting her off mid-flow. 

Sighing dramatically, she bid her brother goodnight in return and followed the unsmiling Tom Riddle out of the room. They passed along the corridors slowly, in silence, Constance watching the dark haired boy through her lowered eyelashes as he walked beside her. He'd offered her his arm, but despite her aching muscles, she'd refused, not wanting to appear completely useless in front of him. The fact that he'd seen her take a total pasting from Marcus wasn't good. She hoped he'd keep his mouth shut – and then wondered whom, exactly, he'd tell, even if he were the talkative type. Tom Marvolo Riddle wasn't known for his vast multitude of friends, and the closed expression on his face reassured her further. 

Whilst they walked, then, Constance attempted to sort out what she'd gleaned from the night's events. She now had several questions that she wanted answering. Firstly, why had Tom been involved in something that she'd intended to be just between herself and Marcus? Was it because he was involved with whatever it was that was going on with her uncle? Then, of course, there was still the question of all Seraphim's accusations. Secondly, what was the relationship between Salazar Slytherin and the Zalaras family? Of course, it wasn't any of her business _why_ Salazar had had a wing built for Tom's family. But Constance's curiosity meant that she rather wanted to make it her business. _There's something important, there. _Something that she couldn't quite place, her mind refusing to make the necessary connection. And it wasn't top on her list of priorities, she reminded herself, her family came first. 

Lost in thought, she startled at Tom's warning hand on her shoulder. They'd passed through the revolving wall on the third floor some time ago, and were almost into the dungeons_. Almost on home ground_, she thought.

"Quiet," Tom murmured, before she could speak. He pulled her into the shadows by the wall, ignoring her faint sound of protest. Instead of an explanation, he nodded in the direction of the corridor ahead of them, and she saw the silhouette of the Deputy Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore. Although they were both concealed by one of her uncle's charms, Tom obviously wasn't planning on taking any chances. His face had gone very still, his eyes narrowed as he watched Dumbledore's sweeping progress towards them. _What's he doing up so late anyway, _she wondered, as the Transfiguration teacher paused, suddenly, cocking his head as though he'd sensed them. _Go away, you selfish git. I want to sleep._ She felt Tom's hand tighten painfully on her arm, but did not dare flinch or make any sound. Not when Dumbledore was close enough to hear. He was the nosy type, too, and no doubt he'd start flinging Revealing Charms around at the slightest provocation. 

As she noticed the auburn haired professor's fluffy orange slippers, which were decorated with embroidered purple frogs, she suddenly remembered the image she'd had earlier of Dumbledore enjoying tea and biscuits with Tom and her brother. Constance had to bite her lip to prevent herself laughing – and consequently the whole situation just became even more amusing. Fortunately Tom noticed her inappropriate levity, and moved his other hand to cover her mouth before she could give them both away. His attention returned almost immediately to the Transfiguration teacher.

Albus Dumbledore yawned, and took out a large gold pocket watch. She could see a bored looking pixie inside the case, twiddling the minute hand into position. After several minutes that seemed to last forever, the Deputy Head began to move on down the corridor. With Tom's restraining hand on her arm, she waited until Dumbledore had passed out of sight. Only then did Tom take his hand away from her mouth.

"We can go," she whispered, but Tom did not answer. As she turned to him, she discovered that once again she was the subject of his unblinking, oddly mesmerizing gaze. Perhaps it was tiredness, or her recent physical exertions that heightened her sensitivity, but despite her robes, Constance could feel the warmth of Tom's hand on her arm. She could almost feel the heat radiating from his body, so close to her own, in welcome opposition to the cold of the stone wall behind her. Just as it had at the Halloween feast – only a few hours ago – a strange stillness enveloped them. As though they were in the eye of a storm, protected by the all-encompassing silence that had suddenly developed. Blue eyes met turquoise, and Constance realized that she did not want Tom to move away. _We stand up peerless, we two._

Something of this must have registered in her face. Tom, who had been looking at her as though he had just solved a very great puzzle, inhaled slowly. She heard the unsteadiness of his breath. Saw uncertainty flicker across his face as she reached out a hand to his chest, just to push him away, that was all, because she could _not_ allow this to happen, saw his doubt disappear with her own as her fingers played traitor, twining in the fabric of his robes to pull him to her. _Let it happen, then_, she thought. He wasn't a riddle after all. It was really very simple. Forget Marcus, forget Octavius, forget everything. She murmured his name, watched his eyes widen with some dark emotion. Enchanting, bewitching.

His free hand moved up her arm, slowly, his fingers trailing over her neck to her face. As though he were somehow learning her appearance by touch alone, like a blind man. He paused for a moment as her lips parted at his touch, then, as she shook her head slightly in some inchoate denial, he slid his hand down her back to her waist and pressed her to him, hard. His wand hand was against the wall, steadying them both as Constance pulled him closer to her, as though she could somehow transcend the barriers of fabric and flesh and become _part_ of him.

__

Annihilation of the self, she thought briefly, remembering the phrase from somewhere, just before his lips met hers – at first lightly, hesitantly, then, as she responded, with a growing sureness and passion that she had not expected from him. She couldn't help comparing this to the halfhearted, almost obligatory fumbling she'd shared with Aurelius at their first Yule Ball, they'd been too nervous to relax and had never spoken of it again – but this was so, _so_ different, Tom's taste, his scent, the heat of his body hard against her, the tip of his darting tongue all combined to make her senses reel. The stones dug into her back as he pressed her harder against the wall, as if it would absorb them both, but the pain was nothing, a minor distraction, not even that when compared to the feeling of _him_, Tom Marvolo Riddle, his mouth on hers, his hand moving down past her stomach, to _her_, and for the first time in her life, her hands moving in his hair, her nails digging into his back, Constance Malfoy felt desire. 

And remembered something.

"Wait," she gasped, her breath shallow and fast as she turned her head away from him, breaking the kiss. "Please. Stop."

The dark haired boy lifted his head slightly, his eyes questioning, wary. She was almost painfully aware of what his hand had just been doing, and the effect it had had on her. The effect it was still having on her. It was very difficult to say what she said then, but she said it anyway. She _was_ a Malfoy.

"I can't," she said softly, trying to ignore the treachery of her hands as they refused to let him go. "Not now, not here," she said, in answer to the question in Tom's face. _Not ever_, she added mentally. _Not with you_. She knew only too well the constraints placed upon her, knew that she couldn't let this go any further. She was the daughter of Julius Malfoy, and there were certain things required of her. Constance did not have the kind of freedom that girls like Teresa enjoyed. Or sons of the family, for that matter, she thought. Marcus could do whatever he pleased, as long as he was discreet. But whomever it was that her father eventually picked for her as a husband – Aurelius, no doubt – he would expect to be the first. _It's only natural to want a refund on damaged goods, after all_, she thought, surprised at how bitter her resentment actually was.

__

But a fully trained Dark Arts Mistress can do as she pleases. The thought startled her, bringing a new dimension to the powers she could some day wield if she chose. Constance knew she had a long way to go. Her brother's victory had left her in no doubts as to her current status. _One step at a time_, she told herself.

Tom did not press her for answers, but carefully extricated himself from her grasp, his eyes veiled once again. She didn't _think_ he was angry, but he had somehow distanced himself from her. His urgency, his desire from only a few moments ago – hidden behind the cool, composed mask he'd worn as long as she'd known him. As he inclined his head in gracious, mocking acknowledgement of what had just passed between them, Constance was dismayed to see how quickly he'd recovered his poise. Like Marcus, Tom Marvolo Riddle was several steps ahead of her in the serpentine chain they were forging.

__

He really is beautiful, she thought, as a sickening wave of exhaustion hit her. In the half light of the corridor his skin was almost translucent, a whiter shade of pale, his eyes gleaming dark red and weird, implacable and cold, unforgiving –

"Are you all right?" Tom asked, grasping her arm as she swayed. His turquoise eyes revealed a trace of concern, quickly hidden. "You look like you're about to faint."

"I'm just so tired," she replied, rubbing her eyes. "It's been a busy night." An understatement, that. But the mind could play strange tricks when it was tired, Constance thought. _As can the flesh. _She could still feel him, his touch, his scent, his taste. She wondered, slightly hysterically, whether she'd be able to look him straight in the eyes again. 

As though to reassure her, the dark haired boy took her hand, lacing his long fingers through hers. A childlike gesture that was somehow comforting in its innocence. "Time to sleep, then," he said, smiling faintly as he led her back to the Slytherin common room.

*

The seventh year Gryffindor and Slytherin Potions students being blessedly quiet for once as they concentrated on their textbooks, Quintus' mind was free to return to more important matters. His cousin had arrived at exactly ten thirty the night before, passing silently through the open door and into the Potions classroom to stand before the Potions master's desk. Although he'd been expecting him, Quintus was still preoccupied with thoughts of the evening's events, and was, therefore, slightly startled when his cousin's low voice broke into his reverie.

"I know I'm not early," Aurelius said, "but you do seem remarkably unprepared for a Potions lesson."

__

Well, I have been rather busy, the Potions master had thought, doing his best to take his mind off the Divination teacher and Octavius Malfoy. He followed Aurelius' gaze down to his desk, which was entirely free from the customary paraphernalia they used. The smooth wood had been recently polished, shining innocently in the candlelight. Then he'd looked back at Aurelius, meeting his cousin's quizzical stare with a carefully neutral expression. 

"Appearances can be deceptive," Quintus had said delicately. "And you assume I called you here for practical work."

Curiosity flickered in his cousin's eyes, only to be replaced with a guarded expression that Quintus recognized only too well in him. They'd never been close, and at times like this, he regretted the awkward distance between them. But blood was blood, after all. He wondered whether he'd been so good at controlling his feelings at Aurelius' age, or whether it was something his cousin had learned in Slytherin. Valerius Snape, after all, was a master in that art, whereas Quintus could read his Gryffindor father like a book. Had Quintus been less well trained, he'd have missed many of the tiny signs that indicated his cousin's feelings. Not that he could ever say for sure what Aurelius was thinking.

"Oh?" Aurelius had asked, as the silence grew. Quintus thought he could detect a very faint trace of uncertainty in his voice as he continued. "Then why did you want me?"

"I thought we could go over the theoretical foundations of substitution techniques," Quintus said calmly, watching to see his cousin's reaction. The almost imperceptible widening of Aurelius' eyes – disappointment? He continued, slipping effortlessly into lecturer mode. "Certain potions require ingredients such as the hypothalamus, and other human body parts - these are, of course, illegal – but there are other substances which, when combined, can be substituted for these forbidden ones without any noticeable decrease in the potion's efficacy –"

"I know what substitution is," Aurelius said flatly, his eyes dark. "And I don't believe this is what you wanted to see me for."

Lacking the iron self control of Valerius Snape, Quintus had had to smile at Aurelius' scowl. "I'd be disappointed if you had," he said mildly. "And, with that poor attempt at dissimulation out of the way – why do you _think_ I want you here?"

Aurelius' voice was cool as he answered, revealing nothing of what he might or might not have been feeling. "The article today. Flay. The Ministry. The Unspeakables. The prophecy, perhaps, has some significance."

Quintus had remained silent, watching his cousin closely. He felt sure that Aurelius was capable of getting a mathematically acceptable result by putting two and two together – and he was certain that Aurelius had the kind of nature that would drive him to pursue the various threads that had been dangled before him. _He is Valerius' son_, he'd reminded himself, without the acidity with which he usually regarded his uncle.

Aurelius did not disappoint. "I went to the library this lunchtime," he said, taking a small red book out from the pocket of his robes. "I was reading about the visionweavers, and came across this book. It was Flay who authorized the concealment of the visionweavers by the Department of Mysteries, during the early years of Grindelwald's rise to power. And there's a detailed description of the theory behind the gift, and the hierarchy of the visionweavers. It was most – illuminating."

Quintus had looked at the book his cousin had pushed across the table. _Taming the Tapestry: The Weaver at the Loom._ So Aurelius had done his homework, after all. That book had been written during the 1920s, and was extremely rare. There were only three or four copies available, two of which were in the Hogwarts library. In the Restricted Section, naturally. He didn't ask how Aurelius had come by it.

"He's still after the visionweavers," Aurelius said softly. It wasn't a question. "Althea Trell wasn't the last, was she?"

Quintus had nodded slowly. "Some are still alive, yes," he said slowly. "I don't know how many, and I don't know where. But Grindelwald wants them, and somehow he's found out that they still exist."

"All he had to do was read this book," his cousin said scornfully. "The number of living visionweavers was exactly thirteen at the time the book was written. Grindelwald had already killed a number of them, and all I had to do was cross-reference this with the death lists in the news archives in the library, from _after_ the book's publication, and it was obvious there were some discrepancies. Although there weren't any names mentioned in the book, naturally, there are at least three unaccounted for."

"You did all this in your lunch hour?" Quintus had asked, dryly. 

Aurelius was unabashed. "I'm a quick worker. You know Grindelwald took his spider symbol from the visionweavers?"

Quintus _hadn't_ known that. It was news, and, remembering the Divination teacher's strange tattoo, he thought it could be rather important. He knew what Grindelwald's emblem looked like, but he wasn't sure about the visionweavers' symbol. He hadn't known they'd had one. Valerius Snape had made no mention of it in his last letter.

"Wouldn't currently employed Unspeakables be aware of the visionweavers' present locations?" Aurelius continued. "More so than the Unspeakables who retired years ago, and don't have access to the same information anymore?"

"If they'd been informed that the visionweavers were still in existence, yes," Quintus said bluntly. "But they weren't. Only a few people know that Althea Trell was not the last of the weavers, and most of those people are dead."

"Then how do _you_ know?" Aurelius demanded. There was a speculative look in his eyes as he stared at Quintus; one that the Potions master was familiar with. Even though he knew only too well what the Snape family demanded from its sons, he'd never lost the secret thrill of anticipation at the thought of secret knowledge. And Valerius Snape had taught him the art of concealment well enough – the patriarch wore intrigue like a cloak. Secrets. They were seductive, Quintus knew. 

"You know perfectly well I have a contact at the Ministry," Quintus said. 

Aurelius did not seem particularly inclined to accept Quintus' explanation. "Your contact told you something so potentially _dangerous_ in return for your skills as a potions-maker?" he asked sarcastically, his lip curled. "Must've been quite some potion."

"There's a strong cynical streak in you, isn't there?" Quintus said mildly. He was amused, although he didn't show it. His cousin wasn't the type to accept any explanation at face value. "It rather suits you."

Aurelius half smiled, although he didn't let it reach his eyes. "I _am_ a Slytherin," he pointed out. "A curious one at that. And, if I may say so, a fairly intelligent one."

"I'll grant you that much," Quintus allowed. Aurelius _was_ living up to his expectations, although he couldn't really take any credit for it. It was, after all, in the blood. 

"I know you're keeping things from me," Aurelius had said softly, surprising Quintus with his sudden directness. "I know it's necessary. I don't want to endanger your position with the Ministry, or the school."

"But?" Quintus asked, as his cousin paused.

"But if I'm going to be asked to make a lethal potion, I think I have the right to know why." Aurelius' eyes had held a silent challenge. "_You_ said that to _me_, once."

It was true, Quintus thought as a ripple of laughter brought him back to the present. After deducting ten points from Slytherin and confiscating Regal Rosier's rather explicit drawing of Verity Black and Minerva McGonagall, his mind turned again to Aurelius. His cousin did have the right to know why. Although he'd managed to evade the issue last night, Quintus knew he'd have to take the boy into his full confidence sooner rather than later. _Especially if recent events are anything to go by,_ he thought, staring absently at the Gryffindor students. The death of Flay, combined with the death of the Unspeakables was enough to make Quintus Snape frown at the best of times - but Haven's vision had perplexed him further. _The faithful servants will keep their ancient promises_. Quintus wasn't superstitious, not in the slightest, and did not have the necessary arrogance to believe that the prophecy applied specifically to his family. But it was somewhat unnerving, to have such a timely reminder of his duty to Valerius and his cousin.

Aurelius had deliberately avoided pressing him for further information about his Ministry contact. Quintus knew Aurelius well enough to know that although such reticence would no doubt be frustrating, his cousin had obviously realized that it would count in his favour in the long run.

"Will it be war, then?" Aurelius had asked him, his face thoughtful as they'd discussed the ramifications of Flay's death.

The Potions master had sighed. "I'm not sure," he'd admitted wearily, although he'd analyzed the situation in great depth earlier on. "There will undoubtedly be a push for a full military response – mostly from the rightwing elements in the Ministry – Wilkes' circle, I expect."

"What will that entail?" Aurelius had asked instantly. "Copernicus was already going to give the Aurors more power, wasn't he?"

"True," Quintus said. "Simeon Wilkes – he's one of the top men in the Department of Defence – will probably demand the legalization of various potions and techniques that were banned in 1909. To give the Aurors more control during interrogations. It's common knowledge that Wilkes wants his Aurors to have the power to imprison without a trial, too. And then there's the Unforgivables – rather a sore point with him. "

"He wants them legalized too?" Aurelius guessed shrewdly. "It's not going to happen."

"Not at this moment in time, no," Quintus replied. "Too controversial for our Ministry's tastes, and it'd cause far too much trouble politically. Wilkes isn't as influential as he'd like to think, and he'd be up against the likes of Sigmund Croaker and Philip Longbottom if he tried to get the Minister's support."

"The conscientious objectors, I presume," Quintus' cousin had said, disdainfully.

Quintus could understand Aurelius' scorn. Croaker and Longbottom were well known for their anti-war stance, and had energetically opposed Britain's sending _any_ Aurors into Europe at all. He wondered whether they'd be such pacifists if they came face to face with Grindelwald's forces. Although he felt somewhat uneasy about giving Aurors the power to kill, he could see the necessity. A Dark wizard wouldn't hit you with the Jelly Legs Jinx, he thought. The only way to successfully block the Killing Curse was to make sure you cast it first. So Valerius Snape had said, anyway. And Quintus knew his uncle was speaking from experience.

"And there's Edward Weasley's bunch at the Department for International Magical Co-operation," Aurelius had said, thinking hard. "They're the middle party – they want to form stronger links with the Muggle community and take a greater role in the war, but without "stooping" to Grindelwald's level. I was reading an article about them in the papers last week."

"The great debate's probably already started at the Ministry," Quintus said dryly. "We'll sit around arguing whilst Grindelwald's laughing."

"Will we?" Aurelius asked, his meaning obvious even without his raised eyebrow.

"I have no doubt _we'll_ be doing our best to aid the war effort," Quintus had said. "In our own fashion, of course." 

His cousin had nodded slowly; aware that there were many things he hadn't been told. And also aware that Quintus had as good as told him that they'd soon be busying themselves with potions ordered by the Ministry.

__

Soon, Quintus had promised him silently. _You'll know everything soon enough. The Snape family always keeps their promises. _And as he remembered the words of the Divination teacher's prophecy, Quintus felt a chill run down his spine.

*****

Notes to Reviewers

Minerva McTabby: What's the point in the Malfoys having a Manor if they don't have any Masked Balls in it? And there is a connection between those things, although in a more roundabout way. Next chapter sees Seraphim denouncing _the violence inherent in the system_. Just for you. Ta for the ink link too. 

Faith Accompli: I made a few changes based on what thou and V said about C's general dimness – but she won't discover it until the next chapter. O, and thank thou muchly for checking this.

Mustardseed: Do you still like excited Riddle? Aka SexuallyFrustrated!Riddle? Riddlesex, the most delightful interest for LJ users. I want Octavius too. And I want Octavius/Lott (as Minerva McTabby well knows.) Admittedly, Seraphim does have reason to hate him, but that'll be in the next chapters.

TheStrangeOne: Minerva will get what's coming to her eventually – Marcus is being _ever_ so subtle in reading Quidditch In Bed, don't you think? And the title of this chapter was actually a coded response to your suggestion…

Aldalindil: I can't imagine a member of the Skeeter family ever being likeable. Or the Lockharts, for that matter. Blood will tell, rather unfortunately in their case.

Ariana Deralte: Tom's the master of all he surveys. Kind of. Hope you liked this chapter, too.

Aranel: I just liked the irony of having my least favourite character named after two likeable Obernewtyn characters. Rushton Seraphim and Matthew would no doubt kill me for it. I've nicked loads of names from George R R Martin and Robin Hobb, too. 


	13. Songs of Innocence

****

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. With the exception of Grindelwald, Tom Riddle, Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall Professor Binns and Armando Dippet, the characters belong to me. The descendants of the Malfoys, Snapes, Blacks and Potters belong to J K Rowling, but I'm sure you could figure that out for yourself. 

****

Acknowledgements: "The Communist Manifesto" - Marx and Engels, "The Torture Garden" - Octave Mirbeau. Title from William Blake. Also, there's an unsubtle reference to Faith's "Walking Higher", and if you haven't read that, you should've. Worshipful thanks to Veruka (and Faith again) for listening to me whine and giving me Tactful Suggestions about Riddle. However, this chapter would've been done a lot quicker without you bitches seducing me adjectively in IRC all the time.

The Serpentine Chain Part One

Chapter Thirteen – Songs of Innocence

Professor Haven had been absent for the week following the events of the Halloween feast. Her classes were cancelled during that period, much to Constance's chagrin. She'd decided to take Divination as her minor subject for Binns' assignment, after a few remarks made by her brother and uncle had settled the matter for her. Although she'd been chewing over Defence against the Dark Arts, particularly in light of her recent pasting at Marcus' hands, her brother had told her that she'd be doing a lot of assignments in that subject over the course of the next year anyway. And after her uncle had devoted a lesson to the darker side of Seers – the blood sacrifices and moon rituals of the 17th century for starters, following on with the ways in which Grindelwald had exploited their talents, her mind had been made up. She had to admit that she was becoming much more interested in the intricacies of Divination – although she'd been fascinated by the subject's possibilities from the start, Professor Haven's vision had made a lasting impression on her. Constance had taken the opportunity to re-read the notes she'd taken on the Sight during a particularly motivated period of study in the library. The side effects varied rather a lot, depending on the strength and duration of the vision. Nausea, dizziness, drowsiness alternating with insomnia, increased sexual desire or a diminution in the sex drive – _rather a mixed bag_, Constance thought. _And Haven _has_ been off for a week. _She resisted the urge to make a rather lewd connection, and tried to concentrate on planning Binns' essay. 

"Made your mind up then?" Richard said, materializing at her elbow. ""It's taken you long enough - oh, you foolish individual," he sighed, taking in the array of Divination textbooks that were scattered all over the table in the common room. "Bad will come of this, you mark my words." 

"Sod off," Constance said, smiling at her friend's impression of Lockhart. "_Don't_ distract me."

"I can't help the effect I have on women," Richard replied airily. "Forgive my magnetism. I beg you."

"Beg me on your knees during breakfast, and I'll consider it," Constance retorted, "although to be honest, I've seen Flobberworms with more magnetism than you."

"You shouldn't say things like that," Aurelius said from across the table, without looking up from his newspaper. "You'll hurt his feelings, and then he'll have no choice but to kill you."

Richard nodded mournfully. "Rubbishing a man's sexual prowess is a surefire way to tip him over the edge."

"Speaking from experience, are you?" Constance asked, colouring in the loop of the rather stylized G in Grindelwald. Her concentration wasn't exactly what one would call strong at the best of times, and Richard had just brought up the one subject she'd been trying to avoid for the past week. 

She'd by no means forgotten her encounter with Tom in the dungeons. _Not bloody likely_, she thought wryly. She'd almost welcomed the sudden increase in schoolwork as a means to taking her mind off the sudden situation that had developed. Almost, but not quite. Constance had never thought of herself as the type to sigh wistfully over missed opportunities, but even she couldn't help but think about what would have happened had she not remembered herself and her obligations. She knew she'd done the right thing, but lying alone in her bed that night, it hadn't seemed a very consoling thought. She'd lain awake for hours afterwards, curled up in the dark comfort of her duvet, listening to the quiet breathing of the other girls. Remembering the warmth of his hands, of his lips on hers. When she'd finally slept, she'd been plagued with disturbing dreams that had left her most unsettled. It went without saying that she'd kept their encounter to herself – there wasn't anyone really that she _could_ tell, even if she'd wanted to.

And _he_ hadn't referred to it once, speaking to her only as much as was necessary to maintain appearances, always with an air of polite, distant courtesy. He hadn't been cold, exactly, but had seemingly retreated back into himself – effectively severing the faint bond that had been developing between them. It was as if nothing at all had happened, as if he'd returned to the isolated boy he'd been for the past five years. As if they'd never shared anything at all. Perhaps he was embarrassed at their joint loss of control. She'd made no overt signs of friendliness towards him afterwards, either. Remembering the hard, wary look in his eyes, she wondered whether he'd taken her rejection the wrong way. _It's not my fault_, she thought irritably. _It's not like it was easy, for pity's sake._

It was strange, comparing the quiet, studious prefect to the boy who'd kissed her the way he had, hard up against the dungeon wall. She'd had a bruise on her back afterwards, the legacy of a jutting out stone. Stranger still to remember that he was also the last Zalaras, with his own family wing in the castle. That was something she'd been reading up on. She'd unearthed her copy of _Wizarding Families in England and Europe_ shortly after Halloween, and, doing her best to ignore the overblown, flowery prose, she'd spent hours reading about the history of the Zalaras line. 

Tom's wizarding family proved to be as enigmatic as he was. Like members of the very best wizarding families, Tom could trace his roots back to the time of the Hogwarts Founders. The Zalaras family had risen to the top of wizarding society, their glory peaking around the middle of the 19th century. Flicking through the book, Constance noted that her family was frequently mentioned in conjunction with Tom's – although very rarely in matters of matrimony. They'd formed business alliances. Financial alliances. Wartime alliances. During the turbulence of the late fifteenth century, Angelus Malfoy and Septimus Severus Zalaras had joined forces and, and had enjoyed almost complete control over the wizarding community for several years. Admittedly, they had eventually been forced into a compromise by a consortium of several powerful wizards, but that was beside the point. Angelus and Septimus had gained power because of their magical skill, their lineage, and their remarkable ruthlessness, and the two families had increased their prestige greatly. Especially when the two wizards demanded that they retained their seats in the Wizard Council – the early modern forerunner of the Ministry of Magic – and got their wish. _Wizards were wizards in those days_, Constance had heard her father say, and she thought she understood the sentiment. You could get away with murder back then. Up until 1909, in fact. 

It was surprising, Constance thought, that the two families had only intermarried twice in a thousand years. The link between them seemed too strong to have been forged out of friendship – yet she could find no examples of a rift between _any_ generation of the families. Even marriage alliances couldn't have secured such loyalty. She wondered whether Pride Zalaras, the founder of Tom's family line, and Petrus Malfoy – the then head of her own family – had sealed some form of blood oath. It must have been an incredibly powerful one, to keep two aristocratic families loyal to each other for a thousand years. And it'd explain why her brother and her uncle had known about the Zalaras Wing, and why Tom had said "Your blood knows" to her at the Halloween feast. Only, try as she might, she could find no information at all about the relationship between Salazar Slytherin and the mysterious Pride Zalaras. On that subject, her genealogy book and the few history books she had underneath her bed were strangely silent. Constance felt as though she were missing something – something important. There was some thought nagging for utterance at the back of her mind, something that would let everything slide into place – but the harder she pressed for it, the more impossible it became to figure out what it was. Something she felt she should know – but it was as though she had some form of mental block, preventing her from fitting things together. It was decidedly frustrating, and Constance hated the feeling.

"Constance!" Richard's impatient exclamation made her startle, and she realized with some irritation that she'd smudged her work.

She looked at him, annoyed. "What?"

"We have to _go_," Aurelius answered, his expression implying that it wasn't the first time he'd said this. "Potions, remember?"

"If you can drag yourself out of your trance, that is," Richard sniped. "Dozy mare."

"Right," she said shortly, as she flung her things into her bag. She wondered how long she'd been sitting, lost in thought. "You didn't have to shout, you know."

Aurelius looked at her, oddly, she thought, but said nothing. 

*

"It's Malfoy."

Christopher Cale looked up from his freshly poured cup of tea. "What did you say?" he asked, balancing his spoon carefully on the edge of his saucer. 

"Malfoy. I'm sure of it." The Flight instructor was pacing back and forth restlessly; his eyes alight with fanaticism. "Who else _could_ it be?"

"What are you talking about?" Christopher asked, confused. "What's Malfoy?"

Matthew Seraphim sighed impatiently. "The danger within, of course," he said brusquely. "What Haven said – the danger comes from within, just like it did at Beauxbatons – Dippet will _have_ to listen to me now." He took another three steps around his room, then paused. "I was right about him all along."

"You don't know that for sure," Christopher pointed out mildly. "Just because he's somewhat – less than pleasant –"

"That's an understatement," the Head of Gryffindor sniped. "As pleasant as a Bludger to the head, that's Octavius Malfoy."

"Just because he's somewhat less than pleasant," Christopher continued, "doesn't mean he's in league with Grindelwald."

Matthew Seraphim rolled his eyes. "I don't know why you're being so nice about him," he said, "given the way he's treated you –"

"There's a difference between being a bigot and being a murderer," the Chantwork teacher said wearily. "He doesn't like Muggles, and he doesn't like me, and he _really_ doesn't like you, but that doesn't mean he's planning on killing us all, and it doesn't mean he's going to betray us all to the Dark League."

"He's not got a clean record," Cale's friend insisted. "He's been a smuggler, he's been arrested – you know the circumstances surrounding his appointment here – and that's not all," Seraphim ended ominously. "The whole family's twisted, if you ask me, they've been dealing in the Dark for centuries."

"That's beside the point," Christopher said patiently. "You can't accuse him of something like this without real proof." Matthew shrugged, causing Christopher to sigh inwardly. At times like this he wished that Matthew were less emotional and more rational where such things were concerned – although he himself had never been as coolly logical as Quintus, he appreciated the Potion Master's analytical mind more than he could say. "The prophecy could've meant anything," he added, "you know how inexact Divination is."

The Flight instructor shook his head dismissively. "It's enough," he said. "It confirms everything I already knew about Malfoy. He's teaching dangerous spells to his niece, his brother bribed the Board of Governors to get him a place here, the man is _poison_," Matthew spat. "And Dippet _won't see it_."

"_Why_ do you hate him so much?" Christopher asked quietly. He felt sure that the intensity of his friend's hatred stemmed from something more than just that of an impoverished Muggle-born ex-Gryffindor who'd borne the brunt of Malfoy's – and other pureblood families' – prejudices for years. His friend was fanatical upon the subject of Dark wizards – Christopher, thinking of John, could understand why – but he didn't know what Malfoy had done to convince Matthew of his innate evil.

Matthew Seraphim looked away, his face shadowed. He was silent for so long that Christopher had given up expecting an answer when he finally spoke. His voice oddly calm in contrast with the venom of his previous outbursts, strangely distant and cold. "Octavius Malfoy is the living embodiment of everything that is wrong with the wizarding class system. Hopelessly corrupt. Uncaring. The Malfoys don't care _who_ they hurt, who they use, just as long as they get what they want in the end. They're cruel." It was as if Matthew were talking to himself, Christopher thought. His friend didn't seem to care whether he heard or not as he added "and he takes pleasure in it_,_" almost in an undertone. 

"There's injustice in _every_ society," Christopher pointed out, reasonably. Matthew had always had a chip on his shoulder about wealthy purebloods, but he'd never seemed this implacable about it before. He was also conscious of the fact that even in the Muggle world, Matthew hadn't exactly had a head start. Inherently middle class, Christopher's own family had provided _him_ with advantages from the start, but Matthew Seraphim had been brought up in a very poor area of Manchester. From what Matthew had told him, getting accepted into Hogwarts had been his salvation, a way out. 

"True," the Flight instructor agreed, looking at the backs of his hands. "But it's different here. You know that as well as I do."

"The class system's pretty much the same whether you're a wizard or a Muggle," Christopher murmured. "It's very hard to break the boundaries." 

"The history of society," said the Head of Gryffindor, "is the history of class conflict – and in wizarding terms, it's _always_ been the muggle-borns who've come off worst."

"I know that," Christopher Cale said. "But you've got to admit things have improved over the past few centuries."

His friend scoffed. "Yes," he said. "We're allowed to vote. That's about it. "

"Don't exaggerate," the Chantwork teacher said, with mock sternness. "It's not _that_ bad."

"Some Quidditch teams still won't let Muggle-borns play," Matthew said resentfully. "They claim purebloods fly better – which, I can assure you, is _complete_ nonsense. And we're passed over for the top jobs at the Ministry – or anywhere else for that matter."

"I thought they'd relaxed the requirements regarding Ministry employment," Christopher said vaguely. He'd never been particularly interested in politics, wizarding or otherwise. At the Conservatory where he'd studied after Hogwarts there'd been very little discrimination – partly because most of the students had Muggle blood in them, and partly because aristocratic pureblood families didn't usually allow their children to study music. The lower class purebloods at the Conservatory were more tolerant. There were different levels of class within pureblood society itself – and Christopher couldn't really bring himself to care. He enjoyed the benefits of the privileged classes in the Muggle world, in a way it was only fair that he should be in the underclass of the wizarding world. His brother had felt differently about it, though. From his first day at Hogwarts, John had hated the blatant prejudice he'd encountered in pureblood wizards. He'd developed an interest in the working classes of the Muggle world too – an interest that had caused a lot of arguments between him and their parents. _A rebel with too many causes_, Christopher thought ruefully. John's desire to change the world had been partly what led him to join the Aurors.

"We'll never be Ministers of Magic, but we can make him cups of tea and check his filing cabinets?" Matthew asked sharply, jolting Christopher back to the present. The Flight instructor didn't wait for an answer, but continued. "We're still second class citizens – no, _third_ class citizens. Half-bloods don't get it nearly as bad."

There wasn't much Christopher could say in response to that. His friend _was_ right. Although Quintus had never seemed overly interested in his lack of wizarding heritage, Christopher knew that the rest of his friend's family was a different matter. He'd visited the Snapes' island home several times, during his years as a student, and had been awed by the built in sense of _history_. Ancestral portraits, hundreds of them, lining the walls. The family tree embroidered onto an enormous tapestry in one of the dining rooms. The mausoleum in the grounds. Tradition was the mortar that held the stones together. Christopher could trace his family back about a century. If that. Quintus could trace _his_ back almost a thousand years. He wasn't surprised that Valerius Snape, the head of his friend's family, had not deigned to greet him. He was rather taken aback that Valerius had tolerated his visits at all - he doubted that the Malfoys would have allowed him into their home. 

"What are you planning on saying to Dippet?" he asked his friend suddenly. "Are you going to push for Malfoy's resignation?"

Matthew looked at him. "Better safe than sorry, don't you think?"

"Even if you're right about Malfoy – and I'm not saying you are – he's from a very respected family," Christopher pointed out. "They won't take your accusations lying down."

"I'm sure they'll do anything to avoid publicity," Matthew said sourly. "But I have Albus' support on this matter."

"Albus?" Christopher was surprised. The seemingly mild mannered Deputy Head had never shown any antipathy towards Octavius Malfoy – unless one counted their disagreement over the expulsion of Rubeus Hagrid. Then again, Christopher didn't know Albus Dumbledore or Octavius Malfoy well enough to judge them with any real degree of accuracy. 

The Head of Gryffindor nodded solemnly. "He's as concerned about Malfoy as I am," he said. "Doesn't trust him an inch where Slytherins are involved. He opposed Dippet's decision to employ him, but was outvoted by the Board of Governors –"

" – and they pretty much do just what the Malfoy family say," Christopher ended for him. "I see."

"You have to admit," Matthew said, "he's the most likely to have turned against us."

It _did_ make sense, Christopher thought, remembering the rumours that circled like flies around the man in question, but he still wasn't sure that _forcing_ Malfoy's resignation was the wisest option. Then again, if the man was working for Grindelwald, Hogwarts was the last place on earth that he should be. He was infinitely grateful the decision didn't rest with him. 

*

"The world may be ending," Richard announced as they left the Transfiguration classroom, "the world may be ending, but at least I know how to turn a raccoon into a Quaffle."

"Which will be bloody useful when the world ends," Aurelius said dryly. "You'll not be caught short when they drag you down to the bowels of blackest hell, oh no. You mighty wizard, you."

"What do you mean, the world may be ending?" Constance asked, glancing behind her to see Tom Riddle and Paul Tudor following. She'd managed to remain relatively _un-_distracted for most of the lesson, but still. There were limits to one's self-control. "Have you foreseen the Apocalypse, or something?"

Richard rolled his eyes. "For a bright girl," he said, "you're unbelievably dim at times."

"Thanks for that penetrating insight into the workings of my mind. Answer the question."

The brown haired boy sighed, and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. "The world is ending," he began, "because we're all about to die. If you believe everything you hear, that is."

"What do you mean?" Constance asked.

"All the first years are pissing themselves!" Richard exclaimed, gleefully. "They think Grindelwald's coming to turn us all into flies and kill us with giant spiders!"

"Er, why giant spiders? And why flies?"

"Because of Haven's prophecy," Aurelius answered. "Grindelwald's known as the Lord of Webs, and all that."

"And that spider stuff last year," Richard said, looking positively joyful at the prospect of being turned into a fly, "People are wondering whether that Hagrid person wasn't secretly working for Grindelwald –"

Constance gave a very unladylike snort. "That oaf? In league with Grindelwald? Could he even _spell_ Grindelwald?"

"Nasty Constance," Aurelius said, in mock reproach. "It's not his fault he's got a severe intelligence deficiency disorder. And Grindelwald's a very tricky name. Syllables, that's what it's got."

"It's a nice, evil name," Constance said appreciatively. "Appropriate. That's what it is."

Paul Tudor, who'd obviously been listening in, sniggered. "You never get any Dark Lords called Fred, do you?"

"I think the name's supposed to inspire fear," Aurelius said dryly. "I don't think Fred quite makes the grade, somehow."

"I am Fred, hear me roar!" grinned Paul. "It – lacks a certain finesse."

"Grin-del-wald," Richard said, rolling the word around in his mouth. "Sounds like something the Brothers Grimm would've thought up."

"The brothers who?" Constance asked blankly, pleased to see the same lack of comprehension in the faces of the others.

"Grimm," Tom Riddle offered, as he moved alongside Richard. "Muggle writers. Fairy tales." His voice was ever so slightly contemptuous as he spoke his last words. "Beautiful orphans defeating ugly witches."

It was the first time that Tom had spoken to her when there'd been no clear need for him to do so, and she glanced at him uncertainly, cursing herself for being completely inexperienced at this type of thing. And cursing her mother for neglecting such an important part of her education. And she was well aware that she'd limited herself in this area – she'd never had a close female friend to discuss such things with. And it wasn't a situation she'd had to deal with before. Aurelius had always been – Aurelius. They'd had the odd passionless fumble at the Yule Ball, and then, by unspoken agreement, had carried on as normal. It hadn't been difficult, for either of them. And Richard, thankfully, had always been otherwise engaged.

"Muggle writers?" exclaimed Paul, saving Constance from having to make a reply. "Richard….are you trying to tell us something?"

Richard raised a languid hand to his brow, in an incredibly melodramatic gesture. "O, is my dastardly secret about to be revealed? After so many years?" 

"Come on, Richard. We're all open-minded here. Sort of," Aurelius said, smirking.

"Tolerant bigots," Richard moaned. "How can you accept me when you know the horrible truth? The truth about my – sordid lifestyle!"

Paul Tudor's eyes danced with delight. "You Muggle lover! I knew it! All these unsubtle references to Muggle writers, and religions and stuff – you've been slumming it, haven't you?"

"Wallowing in the filth," Richard confessed. "At the weekend, my name is Martin Miggs. I am the Mad Muggle. I do Muggle things and _I know it's wrong – _but it just feels so good!"

"You're a bloody lunatic," Constance said, staring at him. She hoped he was joking. She thought he was joking. She was about ninety percent sure he was joking. 

"I'm a disgrace to the house of Slytherin," Richard said, hanging his head.

"Tell us something we didn't already know," Aurelius sniped.

"I'm a Slytherin under false pretences," the brown haired boy sighed. "Now punish me, I beg of you. Purge this sickness from my corrupted mind."

"No need," Aurelius said, with an air of tremendous smugness. "If the world's about to end the way you like to think it is, the Dark Lord's giant spiders will get you anyway."

"Giant spiders?" Tom asked, looking slightly confused. "_What_ giant spiders?"

"Grindelwald's spiders. Doom, death, prophecies, and general disaster. That kind of thing," Paul explained, with a confidential air. "Death by spiders. It's – imaginative, I suppose."

"Oh," said Tom. "Spiders. Of course."

"Get thee into Gryffindor," Constance said to Richard, having decided that he was, in fact, joking. "For Salazar would not want his noble house tainted with your pestilent, pugnacious, putrid presence."

"Prithee, pretty lady," Richard replied dolefully. "If I could, I would. Those Gryffs are such a jolly bunch!"

"Downright champion, lad," Paul said, adopting the Yorkshire accent that Godric Gryffindor was rumoured to have had, then dropped it swiftly. "Splendid fellows, all of them. Aren't they, old bean?"

"Utterly spiffing. Top hole. Corking," Richard agreed. "_Marquise_."

Richard's apparently irrelevant last words had been directed to the concealed door of the Slytherin common room. As it slid open, Constance smiled inwardly at the Head Boy's choice of password – she could sense her brother's influence a mile off. No matter how much Marcus had tried to deny it, she knew perfectly well that he'd had a long-term literary love affair with the Marquise de Merteuil. It was actually quite sweet. In a twisted sense, of course.

"Absolutely fabulous, chaps," Aurelius said dryly. "Now sod off to Dippet's office and get yourselves re-Sorted before I have to kill you."

"Can you do that?" Tom asked, with a sudden interest.

"What? Kill them?" Aurelius looked wistful as he settled himself upon the green sofa. "I bloody wish."

"Get re-Sorted, I mean," Tom said patiently.

"You're not forsaking us, are you?" Constance murmured, tilting her head back slightly as she looked at the dark haired prefect through half closed eyes. 

"Traitor," Richard whispered, loudly.

The halfblood didn't smile, but looked straight at Constance as he answered. "I'm quite sure that the Hat put me in Slytherin for a reason." There was a very subtle hint of amusement in his voice as he added, "I'm certainly not ungrateful."

"Even if the Hat had made a mistake, it'd never admit to it," Aurelius pointed out. "I'd say it had its head up its own arse – if that wasn't a physical impossibility."

"If it admitted its mistakes," Constance said, looking away from Tom, "it'd have Richard re-Sorted into Hufflepuff, where he belongs."

"You're a very cruel person, did you know that?" Richard asked sadly. "You heartless girl."

Constance smiled. "I try, truly I do. And most of the time, I succeed. Aren't I brilliant?"

"Utterly. Beyond compare. But back to the original topic," Paul said, with a sneer at Constance. "_do_ you think we're all doomed?"

"No," Aurelius replied, so firmly that Constance was slightly surprised. "Grindelwald admires British wizards. He likes us – he just wants to rule us."

"Only people who stand in his way are doomed, then," Constance mused. "I can't say I'm overly bothered about Flay, though."

"It wasn't so much the purebloods who were threatened in Europe," Richard said, thoughtful for once. "Remy said that it was the Jewish wizards Grindelwald was really concerned with."

"I thought Jewish magic was very powerful," Constance asked, trying to remember the details they'd been given in Charms the year before. "Aren't the practitioners of Kabbala as strong as mainstream wizards?"

"Yes, in a way," Tom Riddle answered, his expression unreadable. "But to some, it's an obscenity – blasphemous. And Grindelwald has – rather eccentric personal beliefs, to say the least."

"In what way?" Aurelius asked. "How do you know?"

"Because I hang on Binns' every word," the prefect said, with some asperity. "Anyway, he wants the Jewish race wiped out completely, which is why he's working with Hitler."

"Hitler's the German Muggle, isn't he?" Aurelius asked.

"Austrian," Tom corrected him. "But he _is_ a Muggle."

"What kind of ethnic cleanser works with Muggles?" Paul demanded. "I mean, _honestly_. Let them have their own bloody wars."

__

Ever the epitome of tact, Constance thought, glancing almost involuntarily at Tom. She'd noticed various signs in the past that indicated he was rather sensitive about his Muggle heritage. Although his composure was formidable – as she'd experienced firsthand for herself – whenever Muggles were mentioned there were always tiny signs that betrayed him. His fingers twined around his bag straps – to prevent trembling? She wondered what it was like, having to live with the Muggle war during holiday time, and the wizarding war during term time. She'd heard that the British Muggles were having a much bloodier war than the wizarding community at present, and although she couldn't care less what the Muggles did to each other, she felt rather sorry for Tom. 

"Well," Aurelius said, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Grindelwald's not fond of Muggle-born wizards – but I don't think he's planning on wiping out Muggles full stop. He's just using them to get rid of the Jews."

"Muggles, Muggles, Muggles," Paul sighed. "I _don't_ see the attraction. And they should be kept in their bloody place, if you ask me."

"Which we didn't, but your opinion's always enough to brighten up our day," Aurelius said graciously.

It was an opinion that Constance could understand. Since the changes in legislation regarding the rights of muggle-borns, she'd heard it said that the rights and privileges afforded to members of pureblood families had diminished somewhat. Although she didn't know firsthand – she hadn't even been born when the Muggle Born Opportunities Act had been passed in 1911 – she'd heard enough from her father and grandfather. Caecilius Malfoy had been one of the staunchest opponents of the new laws, and her father had told her many times that proper wizarding blood was counting for less and less. He'd been appalled at the prospect of Muggle born wizards working in the Ministry – how could someone with no magical background _ever_ hope to understand the traditions and complexities of pureblood society? Her family, and many others, had spent centuries building up their rank and fortune – it was downright _rude_ to expect a Muggle-born to hold similar status to a Malfoy. It went against everything traditional in wizarding society – blood was one of the most important elements in strong magic, and blood ties were incredibly powerful. Family really was everything. Again, her thoughts turned to Tom. He was sitting silently on one of the floor cushions that lay scattered around the common room, his face carefully neutral. She looked away before he noticed her gaze, utterly mystified as to what on _earth_ had possessed Styliane Zalaras to marry a Muggle. She couldn't for the life of her imagine the attraction. Well. She could. _Although it depends which side of the family Tom got his looks from_. She couldn't deny the fact that he was aesthetically pleasing. To say the least. But even that didn't excuse Styliane's behaviour, not in Constance's eyes. _If _I_ could control myself with a Riddle, why couldn't she? _The thought was intrusive and annoying – not least because Constance knew that, if Tom had been a pureblood, she probably _wouldn't_ have controlled herself that Halloween night.

"If he comes here," Paul said, and Constance realized that she hadn't been paying attention for quite some time, "if he comes here, I hope he _gets_ Bernstein. And I hope I get to _watch_!"

There was a short silence. "Well, that effectively killed the conversation," Richard said cheerfully, "if you'll pardon the pun."

"Paul, anti-Semite and future serial killer, hath spoken," Constance murmured.

"Oh, I'm not anti-Semitic," Paul said quickly. "I just can't stand Jacob Bernstein."

"Perfectly understandable, that," Richard agreed. "Tell you what – if Grindelwald doesn't get him, how about we do it together?"

"Yes!" Paul said, with vindictive glee. "We can hide his corpse in the Forbidden Forest – and nobody will ever know!"

"Except us," Aurelius pointed out dryly. "Or are you planning on offing us, too?"

"Screw you," Richard said, with relish. "We were going to let you help!"

"Brilliant," said Constance. "Can we kill Coombes as well?" He'd been decidedly snippy since the little incident with the Tremens Hex. Irritating little git. 

"We can make a weekend of it," Aurelius suggested. "The killing of select Gryffindors, followed by a gentle, leisurely stroll in the Forest, and some light digging. Perfect entertainment for those dull Sunday afternoons."

"We could even harvest some fungi," Paul added.

"Strictly for Herbology purposes, I hope," Tom murmured, his low voice rich with amusement.

"Oh, naturally," Paul assured him. "We're all conscientious students here – well, I'm not, I've got a life – and we'd never be naughty with mushrooms, oh no."

"And afterwards," Richard said, grinning, "we can all relax with a nice cup of tea. Nothing satisfies like a good cup of tea. Except maybe the look in Potter's eyes when he sees me and my trusty meat cleaver heading his way."

Constance laughed as Richard trailed off, a blissful expression on his face. "Wouldn't a meat cleaver make a lot of mess?" she asked. "Some wizard _you_ are."

"It's already been established that Richard's a Muggle-loving idiot," Paul said. "Keep up, you dim bint."

"Besides," Richard said, "meat cleavers would be a _lot_ more satisfying than the Killing Curse."

"More "hands on" - so to speak?" Tom asked, pensively.

"_Exactly_," Richard said. "I've put a lot of thought into this, y'know."

"Maybe we could sell their body parts down Knockturn Alley," Aurelius said enthusiastically. Then he frowned. "God, no. It'd just be my father trying to buy them. And he'd never look at me in quite the same way again."

"Nah," Richard said lazily. "He'd probably be pleased you were showing initiative. Making a man of yourself."

"Wouldn't he wonder why you had body parts to sell in the first place?" Paul asked. "And be slightly worried as to the dubious morality of his only son?"

Aurelius shook his head, smirking. "My father's private stores contain a _lot_ of unmentionable things," he said. "Dubious morality is hereditary, I fear."

Constance grinned. "He's got loads of human hearts," she said to Paul. "I saw them last summer – some of them were _still beating_!"

"Isn't that a medical impossibility?" Aurelius asked, as Paul grimaced. "Besides, my father would never let an untalented outsider like you into his private stores. No matter how much you flirt with him, you horrid little girl."

Constance was outraged, more so by the sudden flash of hilarity in Riddle's eyes. She glared at Aurelius. "I do _not _flirt with your father! Because, in the nicest possible sense of the word, your father's bloody terrifying! And besides, I'm not an outsider, I've known you since I was a baby."

"Note the way she doesn't deny being untalented," Richard said confidentially. "Maybe she's finally coming to terms with being useless."

"Oh just die," Constance said. "I'm theoretically quite good at Potions, I'll have you know."

"Theoretically," Aurelius agreed. "But in reality, you're just hopelessly impractical where cauldrons and things are concerned. It's me that has to do all the work, you know it is."

"Poor Aurelius. Nasty, lazy, horrid Constance," Richard said grinning. "Clumsy Constance can't even cut carrots because she's so cack-handed."

"I am not that bad," Constance said serenely. "Although I admit, I am often a trifle rough with my scalpel."

"You were _very_ hard on my root last week," Tom said, his mouth twitching. Constance gave him an incredibly filthy _look_, then remembered she'd partnered him in Potions just before Halloween. And she'd made a right mess of their Mandrake root. 

"I'm sure that sounded much better in your head, Riddle," Paul said, sniggering. "Dirty little boy."

"He's not _little_," Constance said, smiling sweetly as Riddle raised an eyebrow. She paused, just to ensure that the half-blood knew two could play at double entendres. "Why, he's one of the – tallest – boys I know."

"Am I the only person without a one track mind?" Aurelius asked, trying to look mournful as the others laughed. Even Tom had smiled, Constance saw, although he'd then looked away. Letting her win that one.

"In _Slytherin_?" Richard asked. "I'd say so. And you should really rectify that. Soon."

"All things come to he who waits," Aurelius said, smirking. "And you can take that anyway you like."

"Oh can I? Can I?" Richard said, grinning.

"Anyway, _I'm_ taller than Riddle," Aurelius added, ignoring the others as he spoke directly to Constance. "So there."

*

An unfamiliar barn owl for the Potions Master had arrived only that morning. A reply, finally, to his questions about the three dead Aurors. Lovegrove's handwriting was as ugly as ever, his sparse script stark upon the page, and the content of his letter was just as ugly. The Potions Master scanned it quickly, taking in the rather peremptory request for several more batches of the Impervio potion. Lovegrove did not mention what the Aurors had done with the Nox Mirabilis that Quintus and his cousin had recently brewed – but that was no real surprise. There were different levels of classified information within the Ministry.

The Potions Master allowed himself, for the first time in quite a few years, to wonder exactly how many people had died as a result of potions he'd brewed. Only ten drops of the Nox Mirabilis to drive a man mad, fifteen to kill him. And that was only the most recent. He'd been brewing lethal potions since he was thirteen, under his uncle's tutelage. He'd had a sharp warning from Valerius, years ago, after he'd confessed to feeling uneasy about what their potions could do to people. It was still fresh in his memory.

__

"You are a tool," Valerius said, his dark eyes cold and shrewd. There was a hint of steel in his voice as he continued. "That is all you are."

Quintus, fifteen and home from Hogwarts for the Christmas holidays, shifted uncomfortably under his uncle's dispassionate stare. Valerius Snape, he thought, was Intimidation personified. His stony nature could wear anyone down – Quintus remembered huge arguments between his father and his uncle that had usually ended with Antonius Snape storming out in defeat. He'd never known just what the arguments were about, but his father always submitted to Valerius, and carried out his family duties. His father's temper was hot and short-lived, especially when compared to Valerius Snape's cold, white anger.

"Do you understand me, boy?" Quintus' uncle asked, his long fingers tapping his desk. A slow, deliberate gesture, calculated to unnerve.

"Yes sir," Quintus replied, but he hadn't found his uncle's words very reassuring. He didn't like to think what the Ministry would do with the unrefined Veritaserum he'd brewed with his uncle. In its rawest form, Veritaserum was highly corrosive. It lacerated the stomach. Eating a person from inside. 

Valerius Snape seemed to read his mind. "How others choose to employ you is irrelevant," his uncle said. "You serve. That is all that need concern you."

"Serve, sir?" Quintus dared to ask.

"You are my_ tool," the older man said, his eyes gleaming from beneath a curtain of thick black hair. His voice laden with a significance Quintus hadn't understood – and wouldn't until much later. "I will use you as I see fit. Do you understand?"_

"Whatever it takes, sir," Quintus murmured, as submissive as his father in the end..

It is not your place to question me. The words Valerius Snape hadn't said. Hadn't needed to say. Quintus knew his uncle was, in a sense, absolving him of responsibility. He knew he was being rather foolish – the Snape family had supplied all sorts of potions to all sorts of customers for centuries, and they hadn't built up their wealth and reputation by being squeamish. His over-sensitive conscience was, in the face of this, quite ridiculous. Especially as he wasn't the heir, and would never have much say in the family's future. That was his cousin's responsibility.

Even back then, Quintus thought, staring at Lovegrove's letter, even back then Aurelius had shown himself to be far more suited to the role of patriarch than either he or Antonius could ever have been. The shrewdness of his father was in him, from the start. Aurelius was very much his father's son. Quintus remembered his cousin's easy acceptance of what he was being quietly trained to do. _What the Aurors do with the Nox Mirabilis is their own responsibility. Learning is never wrong. Even learning how to kill isn't wrong. It's just a thing to learn. _A very practical way of looking at things. A very Slytherin way of looking at things.

He turned his attention back to the matter at hand. The rest of Lovegrove's letter was somewhat less than pleasant. In a postscript, three names were listed. The first two names – Frederick Sassoon and James Owen – were unfamiliar to Quintus, but the third confirmed his suspicions. John Cale had indeed been one of the three Aurors killed by prolonged exposure to the Nox Mirabilis. 

The Potions Master had already decided that he would not share this information with his friend – better to let him believe that John had died a clean, quick death. Avada Kedavra was supposed to be painless, although nobody had ever been able to confirm this. The Nox Mirabilis inflicted complete paralysis upon its victims, and the hallucinations it induced could drive a man stark, raving mad. Christopher Cale did not need to know this. And he didn't need to know that his brother had been dismembered in the same fashion as Ferdinand Flay. Death was bearable, desecration was not. _And besides_, Quintus thought, _I couldn't very well tell Christopher how I knew this._

He would keep the truth about John Cale's death to himself. It was a secret he could live with.

*

Apart from the increasingly familiar yet still disturbing intrusive thoughts – which usually involved Tom Riddle and a double bed, and sometimes the bed didn't even figure – Constance's dreams also included a flurry of illegal curses being flung at her by faceless opponents. That Friday night, sleep was even more elusive, and her brief, fragmented dreams so intense that she jolted awake several times, shaking and breathless, but whether from pain or pleasure she couldn't say. It wasn't the first time Constance had had trouble sleeping, but it was the first time she'd become so frustrated – in more senses than one – that she'd found remaining in bed completely unendurable. Her patience was relatively non-existent at the best of times, but after what seemed like an eternity of staring at the dark curtains around her too-hot bed, she decided to head down to the common room. 

Pulling her warmest robes over her thin white nightdress, she'd decided that there was no real risk that her dorm-mates would discover her absence. Teresa had fallen asleep fairly quickly, but then she _had_ just returned from yet another illicit meeting with Richard. The auburn haired girl looked remarkably shagged out, Constance had noted.

"We were playing Quidditch," Teresa murmured weakly in response to Constance's questioning stare. 

"One on one Quidditch, was it?" Arya Lestrange had asked, grinning. "Quidditch in bed?"

"Did he catch the Snitch?" Camille Chirac had added, as Teresa sank onto her bed. The French girl hadn't appeared at all affected by Haven's prophecy, although several of the Beauxbatons students in other houses had been extremely shaken. _Of course_, Constance thought, _Slytherins have more self-control._

"Oh, very funny," Teresa replied, her eyes firmly shut. "I don't see _you _lot getting any."

"What's his broomstick size?" Constance had asked innocently, ignoring the gibe. "I hear some of the bigger makes can be hard to handle," she added, and got her laugh for the night.

Once sleeping, Teresa wouldn't wake for anything short of Grindelwald's invasion of the school, and maybe not even then. And Arya Lestrange's sleeping habits were eccentric, to say the least – she slept on the floor, wrapped head to toe in a cocoon of blankets, for starters, and talked utterly unintelligible nonsense in her sleep. This had provided Teresa and Constance with a great deal of entertainment during their very first night at Hogwarts (although they'd eventually resorted to casting Silencing Charms around the girl in order to ensure a quiet night's sleep) and Aurelius had since confirmed that Ariel slept in exactly the same way. Not once in all their years at Hogwarts had either of the twins woken during the night – Constance felt secure enough to leave Arya alone. Camille Chirac had set a lot of wards around her bed which would only trigger if a spell was cast directly at her – Constance left _those _well alone. The French girl had also set plenty of wards by the door, though, presumably to prevent any nocturnal visitors. Constance felt decidedly less welcoming towards the French girl by the time she'd finished disabling them and resetting them behind her. She'd have the whole rigmarole to go through when she returned, as well. Not that it really _mattered_ whether they noticed she was gone – after all, the common room wasn't out of bounds – she just didn't feel particularly inclined towards explaining herself at the moment. Besides. Those wards had proved their worth in the past, several times. As several overly optimistic Slytherin boys could no doubt confirm.

The gently glowing embers of the fading fire cast soft shadows across the dim common room. Smouldering light, which could quite easily be fanned into full flame again. Constance eyed it sympathetically as she headed towards the tatty old sofa. 

"Two minds with but a single thought?"

Tom. _Of course_, she thought with wry resignation, even as she startled at the unexpected sight of him. Stretched out full length upon the sofa, which faced _away_ from the door, it wasn't surprising she hadn't seen him when she'd entered the room. Swathed in a long, slightly frayed dressing gown that was buttoned from neck to ankles, covering him completely, he had an open book resting on his lap and was looking at her with a smirk that was altogether _too_ suggestive for her peace of mind.

"I couldn't sleep," she said, a statement rather than an explanation, as Tom slithered into an upright position, clearing a space for her on the sofa. She made sure there was a respectable distance between them as she sat down, despite the rather compelling images that had been spawned by her inner demon at the sight of a horizontal Tom. She wondered whether he'd been thinking about the last time they'd been alone together late at night, and whether her resolve was still as firm as it had been then. And whether she'd have to put it to the test again. "You?"

"The same," he murmured, his mouth curling. There was a definite gleam in his eyes, and she could tell his thoughts were following the same path as her own. One-track minds, she thought, remembering his Mandrake root comment. Unbidden, Aurelius' response surfaced in her mind. A challenge, or a warning? 

"That's not schoolwork, is it?" she asked, glancing at his book. "Am I disturbing you?"

His smile deepened at her choice of words. "Not work," he said, and it wasn't the book that he was talking about as he continued. "Pleasure. It won't help me in my exams, and it's not likely to improve what moral fibre I may possess – but we all have our little vices."

Constance was quite aware of his meaning, and equally aware that she couldn't allow Tom to get the upper hand. She wanted – needed – equilibrium, and so she schooled her features into a mask of polite incredulity, allowing herself a faint tinge of sarcasm as she replied, "Really? I'd never have thought it of you." The lowest form of wit, which was why it was so popular with those whose minds dwelt in the gutter.

Tom inclined his head in acknowledgement. "Don't be fooled," he said, his face serious, "there's an ardent pleasure seeker in most people."

"I'll take your word for it," Constance retorted, knowing perfectly well her own behaviour that night had proved his point. Although "ardent", she felt, didn't really come close. Frantic, desperate – these terms would've been more appropriate. And just thinking about it was dangerous, in a thrilling, illicit way. "What is it you're reading, anyway?"

Instead of replying, the boy raised his book to let her see the title. _The Torture Garden_. She hadn't read it, and didn't recognize the author - and couldn't resist voicing her first thought. Ill advised or no. "Sounds _very_ kinky," she said, smirking at the ghost of a smile that traced its path across Tom's lips. "I bet Groan had a heart attack when you took this out of the library."

Tom raised an eyebrow. "Actually, your uncle lent it to me," he said, with devastating casualness.

"Bound to be _full_ of kinky bits, then," Constance said instantly. "And what's he corrupting your moral fibre for? Teachers and students - isn't that slightly _illegal_?"

"_You_ possess a foul mind," Tom said, and he didn't sound displeased. "Besides. I don't think your uncle's interested."

"In legality, or his students?" she asked sweetly.

The dark haired prefect almost laughed. "Both, I expect. And I haven't yet found any of the bits to which you so eloquently refer, either."

"My heart bleeds for you," said Constance unfeelingly. She yawned, looking into the glowing coals of the fire. Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour that had thawed their reserve, perhaps not, but she did _not_ want them to return to the cool courtesy that had characterized their relationship since Halloween. And she was quite prepared to surrender her verbal virtue to him in their war of words in order to ensure that that did not happen again. She had an idea of how the thing was to be done, but nothing was very clear. She turned back to him, biting her lip in momentary hesitation. Then – "Read to me," she said, surrendering to a very perverse inner voice. 

Tom hardly missed a beat. "And corrupt _your_ moral fibre?" he asked dryly. "An innocent mind is a very fragile thing."

"My mind," she said, delicately, "is a Malfoy mind." 

The black haired boy gave her a long, speculative look. "Shall I start from the beginning?"

"From where you left off."

He looked at her a moment longer, taking in what she'd said and what she hadn't had to say, then lowered his gaze to the pages of the book. When he spoke, there was nothing in his quiet, low-pitched voice to indicate self-consciousness. He was composure personified. "You're obliged to pretend respect for people and institutions you think absurd," he said, pausing momentarily before he continued, "you live attached in a cowardly fashion to moral and social conventions you despise, condemn, and know lack all foundation. It is that permanent contradiction between your ideas and desires, and all the dead formalities and vain pretenses of your civilization which makes you sad, troubled and unbalanced…"

He trailed off, watching her intently as she voiced her mock-complaint. "No torture?" she said, feigning disappointment. "No screams? Not even any _smut_?"

"I told you – I hadn't got that far," he replied, smiling down at his book. Then he looked directly at her, his eyes glinting with malicious amusement. "Perhaps if we went further, you'd find something more to your liking?"

She didn't bother trying to contain the deep thrill that ran through her at his suggestion. He'd have seen through her at once. This game they were playing wasn't like the juvenile scheming she was used to – they were walking higher than that, the two of them. This felt _real._ It felt dangerous, and more than that, it felt decidedly wicked. And she liked it, very much. As she wetted her dry lips, she realized that she'd come to a solution that would be enjoyable for both of them. 

She'd already decided that Tom was intelligent enough to have worked out why she couldn't have gone any further that Halloween. Aurelius' lack of subtlety earlier had without doubt enlightened Tom as to the nature of the role she was expected to play as a Malfoy daughter. In a way, her body and mind were divorced, the needs of the one subjugated to the will of the other, and she was treading a fine line between her desire for him, and her duty to others, treading an even finer line in balancing this with Tom's pride. She wasn't ignorant – she knew that there were _things _people could do without forfeiting their purity. She wouldn't object to doing any of those things with Tom Riddle. She was quite looking forward to them.

She wasn't entirely sure where Tom ranked in wizarding society – common half-bloods, of course, rated only slightly higher than Muggle-borns, but Tom's wizarding family was anything but common. Traditionally, aristocratic families viewed their half-bloods almost like bastards – useful tools, pawns, but without any real status of their own. She couldn't see Tom ever fitting into that role, even if his mother's family had still been alive. She'd guessed that whatever her brother and uncle were doing, Tom was somehow involved. Why else would he have granted them the use of the Zalaras Wing? And that too meant that Tom was more than just a half-blood. He was _special_. If they truly were following the same path, following in the footsteps of her uncle, an alliance with Tom – and not just a purely physical one either, although that was her most immediate concern at the moment – might even be a greater advantage for her family than the planned match with Aurelius. And, on a purely superficial level, he had very nice eyes, and she didn't care which side of the family they came from.

__

Dark Witches, Constance thought, taking a long, deep breath, _showed initiative_. She doubted they sat around waiting for permission from their parents. They made their own choices. _And we all have to start somewhere_. Manipulation – turning one's weakness into a strength – she would turn her impulsive desire into a calculated risk. It was all about control – and they both knew the rules. 

"Perhaps I would," she said, and as she moved very slowly, very deliberately towards him, sliding along the green sofa, she saw something spark deep in his eyes. 

They both knew the rules. He didn't move as she rose to her knees beside him, didn't take his eyes away from her as she brought her hands up to rest at either side of his face. This passivity was deliberate, reassuring her that she would not be compromised, just as her bid for dominance was to remove any doubts he may have had about her feelings towards him – the lingering kiss she planted on his lips was the seal on an unspoken agreement. Limitations had been set upon them – but there was plenty of room for experimentation.

"And so another Malfoy tries to corrupt your moral fibre," she said, moving backwards slightly, smiling down at his upturned face. 

"I can live with that," Tom murmured, his voice lower than usual. "Besides," he said, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist to draw her close again, "what makes you think I'm not corrupting _you_?"

Whatever answer she would have made to that was lost, rather enjoyably, as he kissed her, his tongue twining serpentine with hers, his grasp on her tightening painfully. She wasn't sure which excited her more – the feel of his body against hers, or the response she could elicit from him as she ran her hand down his chest and felt his body tremble. 

Eventually breaking their embrace, she slid her leg over his, and, using him for support, shifted so that she was sitting astride him. She took the faint, involuntary noise he made for encouragement, it was intoxicating to feel that she had power over him in this way, and as her hand slipped downwards past his stomach, she could feel a far more palpable response stirring beneath her touch. Almost without thought she slipped her hand inside his dressing gown, hardly bothering to unfasten it properly, and discovered with a thrill of her own that Tom Riddle was wearing absolutely nothing underneath. 

She brushed against him, the first boy she'd ever touched in that way, tentatively, shyly, and felt his whole body tremble as he hissed words she couldn't make out against her cheek, his eyes tightly closed. As she gained fluency in this new art, his rapt expression taught her that the loss of control was not just to be feared, but to be desired, and she did desire it, Tom's touch, more than anything else she wanted him, it was almost frightening to realize how deep her desires ran. Almost frightening to discover that his needs went as deep, if not deeper, as he grasped her shoulders and urged her down, forcing her off his knees and onto the floor. His sudden breathless urgency startled her until she realized its cause, and without hesitating, because this was Tom, this was real, she lowered her head, her mouth, to him, her hands tight on his hips, and as he reached his release with a choking cry, she felt his hands tangle in her hair, like a drowning man clutching at the sky.

*

Constance wasn't sure exactly how much time had passed since she'd climbed back onto the sofa, wiping her mouth with the handkerchief she'd found in her pockets. She couldn't help grinning when she realized that it was none other than Professor Seraphim's handkerchief – the one he'd given her that time in his office. _Doesn't look like he'll be getting_ this _back_, she thought with some amusement, as she curled up alongside Tom, her head resting on his shoulder. He'd draped his arm around her, without speaking, and had kissed her cheek when she'd smiled up at him. They'd sat in silence for a while, each savouring the comfortable warmth of the other, neither feeling the need to speak. 

Filled with an unusual tenderness, Constance had watched the rise and fall of his chest as his breathing gradually returned to normal, had looked at his closed eyes, admiring the long lashes that she'd _kill _for, had studied the lines and contours of his pale, exhausted face. She'd traced a line over his jaw, over his cheek, up into the messy black hair, and had toyed with the buttons of his dressing gown, wondering whether to satisfy her curiosity about the parts of his body she hadn't yet seen. _Like a child with a new toy_, she thought wryly, placing her hand flat on his lean chest. He didn't move, or voice any protestations as she did so, and she smiled in the knowledge that he was hers to touch, that she could do this to him. She'd claimed him, and there would be no awkwardness later, no. Not after this bargain, sealed in flesh.

It was during her softly exultant exploration of his upper body that she found something odd on his left side, close to his shoulder – a five pointed star formed from hard, ridged flesh. Constance looked at it curiously, realizing that it must have been carved into him somehow. She recognized the shape – the inverted pentagram – and looked at him curiously, wondering why, and how, he had this scar.

"I usually hide it," he said, clasping her hand firmly and moving it away. As though her discovery had restored his caution, he sat up properly, and began to sort out his hair and garments – both of which were in considerable disarray. "The charm – I must have forgotten to recast it –"

"Does it matter?" Constance said, watching him buttoning up his dressing gown.

"It does to me," he said shortly, before adding in a softer tone, "I don't like to forget things."

There was a pause, during which Tom leaned back into the corner of the sofa, putting his arm around her again. She chewed her lip, thoughtfully, realizing just how little she actually knew about him, about his life outside school, about what he wanted to do afterwards, about that scar. In one sense, of course, she knew him intimately, she knew what to do to make him cry out in pleasure, she'd just done something to him that she'd _never_ done with anyone else, but she couldn't say she _knew _him. Not like she knew Aurelius. Or even Richard. 

"Did you do it?" she asked, allowing no uncertainty to show on her face. They'd gone too far for that. "Why?" she asked, as he nodded.

His turquoise eyes glittered strangely as he gazed at her. "It's a reminder," he said, finally.

She didn't say anything; just looked at him, willing him to speak, to prove that what was between them was more than just physical satisfaction. She wanted to know him. Not simply his family background, his family secrets, although these things fascinated her, she wanted to know _him_.

"A reminder of where I come from," he said, looking away momentarily. It was as if he was reciting something he'd learned by heart, a long time ago. "A reminder of where I'm going. A reminder of what I carry in me, at all times."

"Tell me," she said impulsively, lacing their fingers together the way he'd done, at Halloween. Although fatigue was rapidly settling in – it _was_ almost five in the morning – this was more important than sleep. "All of it."

"What is it, exactly, that you want to know?" he asked her, almost warily.

"Oh, everything," she said flippantly, and laughed as he winced. 

"Be more specific," Tom said. "And I might think about answering."

"Why a pentagram? What does it mean?"

"It's symbolic," he replied slowly, his eyes fixed on some distant point above her head. "An act of defiance, if you like. Rebellion."

"Rebellion?" she echoed. Taking in his not quite awkwardness, she hesitated momentarily before continuing. "Against whom?"

"Against God."

He'd spoken so softly that he'd been barely audible. She looked at him in bemusement, not sure that she'd understood. Wizarding society was almost completely secular – although she knew Tom had been brought up amongst Muggles, she hadn't thought he was the type to have held onto their beliefs. But then again – he'd said rebellion _against _God. She wasn't entirely clueless as to Muggle culture – she knew full well that Muggles had feared the magical community for centuries. The Burning Times had been proof enough of that – even though those accused of witchcraft back then had usually been innocent. Muggle religions were uncompromising in their denunciation of magic – was that what Tom's scar signified, and rejected? 

"Yes," he said, and she realized he'd been following her train of thought. "They think magic's sinful, they think it's evil. They think _we're_ evil. That's what they taught me. _Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live_."

"They're a bit optimistic, aren't they?" she said disdainfully. "Like they could _ever_ hurt a proper witch –I'd like to see a Muggle take me on, really I would. "

He smiled. "Perhaps one day you'll get the chance."

"So," Constance said, her mind returning to his scar. "You're _not_ religious." 

"I like the _idea_ of faith," Tom said, thoughtfully. "I like the rituals, and the ceremonies, and the decorations. But if God existed –"

"What?" she asked, as he trailed off.

"I'd probably spit in his face," he said. "Better to reign in hell, and all that."

Constance laughed, in mingled delight and malice. "I'm sure the Muggle clergy must've really _loved_ you!"

Tom's lip curled scornfully. "I can assure you they did," he informed her, a hint of bitterness infusing his lowered voice. "Frequently. And with true Christian devotion."

"What do you mean?" she asked, with a sudden grimace. His fingers had tightened around hers whilst they'd been talking – a sign of tension she recognized. His knuckles, she noticed, were almost white with the strength of his grip.

He shrugged, suddenly impatient. "It's not important. Anyway, it's not _Muggles_ I'm interested in," he said, eyeing her in a manner that left absolutely no room for doubt as to his intentions.

She feigned ignorance anyway. "Oh?" she asked, her eyes widening innocently. "You wouldn't be trying to distract me with indulgences of the flesh, would you?" 

"I'm not _trying_ to do anything," he replied, releasing her hands, and smiling guilelessly at her. 

For a split second, she almost believed him, and was more than mildly disappointed_. To say the least, _she thought. And then his long, tapered fingers reached out to pull her to him again, a smooth snakelike motion. Wandering fingers, that danced, lightly over her skin. She felt her breath quicken, felt a delicious tingling sensation in her belly as he laughed, a deep, knowing sound.

"I'd _like_ to think I'm succeeding," he murmured, his face very close to hers.

"Takes more than that," she countered, making no attempt whatsoever to free herself from his grasp. Instead, she slid her arms around him, and allowed him to maneuvre her backward, until she was lying beneath him. "I'll have the truth out of you soon. All your little secrets," she said, teasing. "I promise."

"Yes, you will," he agreed. "But there's only one that matters," he added softly, then kissed her before she could respond, savouring her taste, his taste that still lingered on her lips, on her tongue. She kissed back, fiercely, clawing her nails into him until he laughed against her mouth, and drew away, still smiling inscrutably. She felt momentarily afraid as she looked up at him, his unreadable eyes burning in his pale face. Instead of diminishing her desire, however, his dark eyes only caused her need for him to grow, an aching hunger that demanded satisfaction. 

__

So far from innocence, she thought in what would be merely a brief moment of lucidity, but as he opened the front of her robes, none too gently, and untied the laces of her nightdress to lower his mouth to her skin, she soon forgot about such things. Concentrated instead on the heat from his lips, on the mingled pain and pleasure his teeth could inflict on her shoulders, neck, breasts, on the lightness of Riddle's fingers as they slid up her leg to return the favour she'd bestowed upon him earlier.

*

There was a smattering of applause from the Gryffindors as Andrew Potter successfully transformed his hamster into a hedgehog, receiving ten points from a smiling Professor Dumbledore. Aurelius, bringing himself back to the present, became aware of a sharp pain in his arm – Richard was jabbing him with his quill.

"And why aren't your thoughts on the lesson?" the brown haired boy murmured softly. "Your hamster looks decidedly un-hedgehog-like."

Aurelius grimaced. "I'm just tired," he said quietly. "If a certain person hadn't woken me up at an obscene time this morning with his _snoring_, I could've caught up on some sleep – but it was not to be."

Richard grinned unashamedly. "You'll have to come up with a better excuse than that," he said.

"Excuse for what?" Aurelius asked. "Not paying attention to Dumbledore?"

"Tell me," Richard said, adopting a declamatory pose. "What sadness lengthens Aurelius' hours? Not having that, which having, makes them short? In love? Out of love? Is there no way I can – ameliorate your circumstances?"

Aurelius had to laugh as his friend clasped his hand, dramatically. "You're a complete fool," he said, disentangling himself.

"I am ever the fool for _you_, my dear Aurelius," Richard said gallantly. "And, being your fool, may I not rush in where angels fear to tread? May I not speak to thee of riddles?"

"Of riddles?" Aurelius asked, rolling his eyes.

"Of riddles, and in riddles," Richard amended. "For they are one and the same, are they not?"

"Speak plainly, you idiot," Aurelius said, exasperated. 

Richard sighed. "Speaking plainly would take all the fun out of my existence," he said plaintively. "But have it your own way."

"Well?" Aurelius asked, impatiently. "Get to the point."

Richard looked meaningfully at the row of students in front of them, where Constance was prodding Tom Riddle's hedgehog with her quill, making it shuffle across the desk in protest. "I know what _your_ problem is," he said.

Aurelius looked at him sourly. "What problem would this be?" he said, the steel in his voice implying he didn't wish to hear an answer. He knew perfectly well he'd been staring at the blond girl, but only because she was in the way of his eyes, so to speak. She'd arrived late to the lesson, and had taken the empty space in the front row, beside Tom Riddle, instead of her usual seat further back. It wasn't what he'd call a _problem_.

Richard ignored him, as usual. "Cherchez la femme," he said wisely, with an atrocious French accent. "Elles sont toujours –" he paused, searching for the right word, then gave up, " – _trouble_." 

Richard's knowledge of French wasn't exactly what one would call in depth, Aurelius discovered. "Si tu ne sais pas," Aurelius said heavily, "tu parles francais comme une vache espagnole. Tais-toi, s'il te plait."

"Non," Richard replied, adopting a wounded expression. "Parce que – oh, stuff it – anyway, I will _not_ shut up because I have weighty words of infinite value and, surprisingly enough, wisdom, to impart."

"In that case, impart them quickly, and _then_ shut up," Aurelius said, jabbing his wand in the direction of his hamster and scowling in concentration. 

"You'll thank me for this one day," Richard said lightly.

"Thank you for _what_?"

"For the advice which I am about to give you, concerning your rather dismal love life," the brown haired boy said, smiling smugly.

Aurelius looked at him with considerable coolness. He didn't appreciate people prying into his private affairs, no matter how long he'd known them. Some things were off-limits. 

"Now, Aurelius, if you ask me –"

"Which I didn't," the black haired student pointed out, his voice laden with acid.

"If you ask me," Richard continued blandly, inspecting his fingernails, "she only likes him because he played the hero last year. He's only a halfblood – she's just slumming for a while. The novelty will soon wear off, don't worry."

"I'm _not_ worried," Aurelius said, his amusement outweighing his annoyance at what he saw as Richard's interference. The thought of Constance "slumming" was ludicrous. She was a Malfoy, after all. "Why on earth should I be?"

Richard Marlowe sighed, shaking his head wearily. "That's not what it looks like," he said regretfully. "It's been the same for a while, now, since we were in the library that time. _She_ watches _him_, and _you_ watch _her_, and I? I watch everybody, because I'm a kind, sympathetic soul and I just want everybody to be _happy_," he ended, mournfully. "And you're still doing it, by the way."

"I am not, and I wasn't looking at her in _that_ way," Aurelius said, mortified. He knew that he and Constance had been friends since birth for a reason, he'd even made tentative overtures towards her in the past, but it didn't mean he was head over heels in love with her. She was his _friend_. Eventually, yes, it was more than likely that she'd be his wife, but that was a long time off. And besides. The best marriages, his father had said, were those based on mutual respect and familial advancement. _Not_ juvenile infatuation. "You're reading far too much into this."

Richard met his gaze levelly. "_She_ noticed it too," he said gently. "Sorry."

Aurelius glared at him. The serious look on his friend's face reminded Aurelius that, for all his flightiness, Richard Marlowe possessed a very sharp mind. It didn't do to underestimate him. _Even when he's completely, utterly wrong, he's still very perceptive._ Aurelius was certain that the mildly flirtatious exchange between the halfblood and his blonde friend the other day had been just that. Constance wouldn't do anything to jeopardize the relationship between the Malfoys and the Snapes. He'd made the situation perfectly clear to both Constance and Tom, he thought. He had nothing to worry about.

"And I expect Riddle has noticed it all as well," Richard continued inexorably. "Doesn't miss a trick, that one. Of course," he added, in an undertone, "he doesn't seem particularly averse to _her_ interest, does he?"

__

Well, he wouldn't be, Aurelius thought, as he followed Richard's gaze to where Tom Marvolo Riddle sat, listening attentively to something Constance was saying. His turquoise eyes were fixed on the blonde girl. _Julius Malfoy would never allow it, anyway. His blood's not good enough_. Aurelius turned back to Richard. 

"It's no concern of mine," Aurelius said, his voice low. "You misunderstand the nature of my attention."

"Do I?" Richard asked, gravely. 

"_Definitely_," Aurelius said, shaking his head irritably to dispel the image of Constance and the halfblood. _As if I don't have enough to think about,_ he thought, _what with illicit Potions brewing, rampaging Dark Lords, and now I've got to keep an eye on Riddle?_

"That's alright, then," Richard said, his brown eyes unreadable. "I was just – checking."

"I grew out of _that_ kind of thing ages ago," Aurelius said firmly, wondering just how much his friend knew about his and Constance's relationship. He'd kissed her during their first Yule Ball, out in the rose bushes, as expertly as he'd known how at the age of fifteen. It had seemed the right way to mark the occasion, although neither of them had really known what to do. And he'd never kissed anyone else, despite the various opportunities he'd had since then. "Let me assure you, since you seem to find my private life so intriguing, that, at present, I have no interest whatsoever in females."

Richard grinned, suddenly and unexpectedly. "Oh, Aurelius," he said breathlessly, "I didn't know you were of that _persuasion_!"

The wicked grin on his friend's face should have warned him, but it didn't. Aurelius was completely unprepared as Richard flung himself off his chair and onto one knee. The other students, who'd been busy with their hedgehogs, paused to watch. Several Slytherins started sniggering, whilst the Gryffindors merely looked bemused.

"Mr. Marlowe," Professor Dumbledore began, his tone wryly amused. "What _are_ you doing?"

"He loves me!" Richard exclaimed joyfully. He clutched Aurelius' legs. "And I love him!"

"And I thought _I _was your one and only, Richard," Simon Harper observed, mockingly, making the Slytherins laugh harder.

"A mistake many people have made," Teresa Symmonds contributed. She glared at Richard and Aurelius in mock fury. "Should I be jealous?"

"Oh don't worry, I've got enough love to go around," stated Richard, his arms clasped tightly around Aurelius' legs. "Haven't I, darling?"

__

You insufferable git, Aurelius thought, looking at the smug face of his erstwhile friend. By now, even the Gryffindors were laughing, and, as Aurelius saw the delighted expression on Andrew Potter's face, he knew there'd be hell to pay for Richard's actions later on.

"Get _off_ me," hissed Aurelius, trying to shake his legs out of Richard's grasp. "What're you _doing_?"

Andrew Potter was shaking with laughter. "I _knew_ there was something funny going on," he said excitedly to his friends. 

"Robe lifters, the lot of them," Jacob Bernstein commented, and Stuart Coombes nodded virtuously.

Aurelius was livid. Richard was proving impossible to shake off. _What the hell does he think he's doing?_

"Come off it, Potter," Constance said, laughing. "You'd sell your immortal soul for what Aurelius is getting now!"

"Oh, Andrew, you can get your Quaffle through my hoop anytime," Richard said, his face buried in Aurelius' robes. "If you beg on bended knee, that is."

"Not in _this_ lifetime, Marlowe," scowled Potter, suddenly turning red.

Professor Dumbledore interrupted, his voice mild, "I think there's a time and a place for everything, Mr. Marlowe – and Transfiguration lessons _aren't_ the most appropriate place for exhibitions of the love that dare not speak its name. Touching though it is," he added, eyes twinkling.

Richard, finally, released Aurelius' legs and sat back on his heels. "Sorry sir," he said, looking decidedly unrepentant. "I can't think what came over me, really I can't."

To Aurelius' immense relief, the class soon returned to normal behaviour, with only a few wolf whistles from Paul and Simon. _No doubt they'll have a field day in the dormitory tonight_, Aurelius thought, and seriously began to consider the possibility of camping out in the library.

"I hope you had a good reason for that little performance," he hissed, as they made their way to the Great Hall for lunch soon after. Behind them, the Gryffindors had already begun speculating loudly about various details of their supposed relationship. 

"Of course I did," Richard said calmly, flicking a speck of dust off his robes. "I was overwhelmed with desire. I'd have thought that was obvious. Darling, you can be awfully _slow_ at times."

Aurelius could have murdered him. "You humiliated me in front of _everybody_!"

Richard looked at him. "Consider it a lesson, then," he said, his voice for once entirely free of mockery.

"A lesson," Aurelius repeated flatly. "Exactly what was I supposed to learn?" 

"Learn to hide your feelings better," Richard said, and hurried off to catch up with Constance and Tom.

*****

Notes to Reviewers

Faith Accompli: I trust you caught the dirty thought behind "I thought you were going soft", then? Ah, of course you did. You're as perverted as I. Anyway. You know most of the Riddleplot (altars!altars! wands that don't work!) that's approaching, so there's not much to say here. Other than "Ta". And that goes for Veruka too.

Mustardseed: She's _still_ virginal. But not at all pure. There'll be more plot in the next chapter, I, er, just had to get SexuallyGettingThere!Riddle out of my system. More Snapes in the next chapter, because it's all about Happy Families, and whatnot. Some proper Elspeth/Octavius/Quintus stuff too, I hope.

TheStrangeOne: Course you can have Marcus. Lots of Marcus/Regal/that lot in the next chapter. I trust I've avoided bringing Constance down with MSS? I think she and Tom have reached an acceptable compromise, bearing in mind she's still clueless as to his Identity. 

Sadie: I hope the Riddlesmut here delights you just as much, o yes I do. And thanks for the review, for they fill me with glee, they do.

Aranel: I cannot reveal such things now, o no. But Elspeth IS quite important, and so's Octavius.


	14. The Diverse Arts of Concealment

****

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. With the exception of Tom Riddle, Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall Professor Binns and Armando Dippet, the characters belong to me. The descendants of the Malfoys, Snapes, Blacks and Potters belong to J K Rowling, but I'm sure you could figure that out for yourself. 

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Acknowledgements: to Minerva McTabby (_Two Worlds And In Between_) for creating Gesius Lott and letting Octavius' mind wander freely. Dostoyevsky's quoted, and the books in Dumbledore's rooms are taken from _The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe_. Visionweavers originally belonged to Isobelle Carmody, but I've taken quite a few liberties with them. 

The Serpentine Chain Part One 

Chapter Fourteen – The Diverse Arts of Concealment

Aurelius' History of Magic essay concentrated mainly upon Grindelwald's use of illegal substances, of course, from 1915 to 1921 – the Draught of the Living Death and the Corpus Immobilatus, to name the most deadly – but he'd had to include a section describing the other factors that had smoothed the Lord of Web's path to power, as well as the response of the Albanian Crime Squad. It was rather an interesting topic.

Formed in the late 1870s in a half-hearted attempt to counter that country's growing reputation of lawlessness) the Albanian Crime Squad had been almost entirely unequipped to deal with the dangers that sprang up during the summer of 1915. For decades, the Albanian underworld had existed comfortably, side by side the usually indifferent Crime Squad. Ferencz, the Head Enforcer, had had far more experience in turning a blind eye to the machinations of various drug lords (to whom he was indirectly related, by marriage rather than blood) and contrabandistas than tackling the type of political threat posed by Grindelwald. His initial assaults upon what passed for the Albanian government had been far more terrifying and far more _effective_ than anything the Crime Squad had encountered previously. The Albanian president, shaken by the assassination of three members of his Council, had ordered the Crime Squad to drop their rather _laissez-faire_ attitude. The president himself had been assassinated shortly after – although this had been attributed to Stefan Bathory, a notoriously psychopathic Potions maker who'd objected rather strongly to the new regulations regarding human experimentation, rather than Grindelwald. 

Although the Crime Squad could never have been classed as a clean, morally edifying body, by 1921 their reputation as the bloodiest law enforcement agency in Europe was secure. Ferencz had been replaced with the Transylvanian-born Bartok – a man who had gained great experience in fighting the Dark Arts during his mother country's various civil wars. Bartok hadn't hesitated to fight fire with fire; although he and Grindelwald differed in their aims, their methods were very similar. The Unforgivable Curses had been legalized almost immediately after his appointment, despite the universal cries of disapproval from countries that were as then mostly unaware as to the dangers Grindelwald posed. Furthermore, Bartok's Squad had been authorized to treat their prisoners as they saw fit – in many cases, the laws concerning humane interrogation and imprisonment had been waived. Unsurprisingly, the official government records were somewhat vague where the details of such cases were concerned, but a particularly tenacious war correspondent had learned that certain variations of Veritaserum had been tested upon captured Grindelwald supporters. Eighteen people had died due to the virulence of the undiluted asp blood.

His cousin had put a lot of effort into his work, the Potions master noted, each meticulously crafted paragraph alight with obvious enthusiasm. _Perhaps too much enthusiasm_, Quintus thought dryly as he re-read Aurelius' description of the physical effects of the Corpus Immobilatus. It was accurate, of course, but he could definitely sense a perverse ghoulishness between his cousin's scribed lines. With phrases like "malodorous intestines ripe with decay" and "rapid, slightly-less-than-fragrant testicular rot", it wasn't hard to miss.

"Wonderful," Quintus said, not entirely amused. He handed the essay back to his cousin. "Valerius has raised a monster."

Aurelius was unabashed. "Colourful, maybe but true," he pointed out calmly. 

"You're _not_ handing it to Professor Binns like this," the Potions Master said sternly.

"Why?" Aurelius asked, nonchalantly. "It's an interesting read. Might do him good."

"It might give him a heart attack," Quintus said. "He's old and frail and innocent-minded, and as a member of the Hogwarts teaching faculty, I have to say that this conversation is disgraceful, disgusting and most of all disrespectful and it must stop at once."

Aurelius eyed him ruefully. "Yes _sir_," he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. 

"Morbid perversity aside," the Potions master continued, ignoring his cousin's smirk, "your Potions work is exemplary. But I'd have expected no less."

"Morbid perversity," Aurelius scoffed. "It's all proper proven fact, I'll have you know. You can't deny that it's interesting – especially to people like us."

Quintus raised an eyebrow. "Interesting," he repeated tonelessly. He was fully aware of Aurelius' meaning. People like us. Potions-makers_. Snapes. _Their work had been restricted for centuries by the authorities. Human experimentation had, for the most part, been forbidden then, except for medical purposes and even then the patients usually had to be in extremis. Consequently, significant Potions developments took so much _longer_ to perfect. He was sure that the Ministry's insufferable pig-headedness was part of the reason why his family had not yet created a successful Wolfsbane Potion. Admittedly, there was a distinct shortage of werewolves lining up to offer their services as test subjects, but experimentation was a vital part of Potions-making. He had more sympathy for the regulations against illegal substances, though. Possession of anything on the Ministry's Index of Illegal Ingredients – unicorn blood, Veela hearts, and any body parts belonging to a human, to name but a few – could also land you in Azkaban. The Corpus Immobilatus contained at least eight of these forbidden ingredients – it was one of the potions Quintus had only learned in theory. He'd never brewed it. There were no recorded cases of the potion having been brewed since its creation in the 16th century – until now. The Ministry may have ordered various illegal potions from _him_, but the Nox Mirabilis was nothing like the Corpus Immobilatus. There were different levels of legality, Quintus thought. Despite himself, Quintus felt a pang of jealousy. Grindelwald had given his potions-makers the opportunity of a lifetime.

"Intellectual pride is a terrible thing," Aurelius murmured. His cousin had obviously been following his chain of thought.

"The Ravenclaw vice," Quintus replied. The thirst for knowledge, for academic stimulation, such a difficult craving to satisfy, so easily taken to extremes. Knowledge at any price. It was, as legend had it, Faustus' fault. Rowena Ravenclaw's, too, if one believed everything one heard. According to the rumours of his House, their Founder hadn't hesitated to make use of Slytherin's dungeons in order to further her own personal studies. The screams from the dungeons hadn't been all down to Slytherin's love of discipline. The relationship between Rowena and Salazar had been mutually beneficial. In fact, the two Houses were still on generally good terms. Ravenclaws and Slytherins weren't all that different. Power and knowledge often went hand in hand. _Our House's dirty secret_, the Potions master mused. It wasn't widely known, even within his House – Ravenclaws knew when to keep silent. He shook his head irritably. "Nevertheless," he said. "It might be better if you adopted a less grisly style. For form's sake. And you know the historical aspect isn't my specialty, you'll have to let Professor Binns be the final judge there."

Aurelius didn't smile. "He'll like it," he said, inspecting his fingernails dolefully. "It's nothing new."

"It's not supposed to be," Quintus said, after a brief pause. "You know that."

His cousin looked up from his hands. "Ulterior motives," Aurelius said, in what was not quite a question. His expression was decidedly shrewd, his eyes dark and calculating.

__

Like Valerius, Quintus noted, and nodded, feeling further explanation was unnecessary.

Aurelius sighed, something Quintus had never seen his uncle do. "I know," he said. "Know your enemy, and all that. I just wanted my work to be –"

"Novel?" the Potions master suggested. "Groundbreaking? Controversial? _Classified_?"

His cousin smiled. "I suppose it _would_ disturb the Ministry if I wrote about what Grindelwald did to those Aurors in Belgium. Not to mention Binns – I deal in _facts_, Mr. Snape. Solid, verifiable facts, not flights of fancy!"

Aurelius' impersonation of the History of Magic teacher was rather good, Quintus thought, relieved that he no longer had to sit through Binns' lessons. He ignored the feeling of discomfort that had arisen with his cousin's mention of the dead Aurors, and smiled faintly. "Intellectual pride," he said, his tone level, "is a terrible thing."

His cousin's eyes flickered as his words were thrown back at him, and tilted his head slightly to look at Quintus with some amusement. "The Ravenclaw vice," he said, enough emphasis on just one word to highlight the difference between them. Knowledge and power. Knowledge is power. Power is Slytherin. "You don't need me for the Veritaserum, do you?"

The Potions master was slightly surprised at his cousin's blunt reference to the new order from the Ministry, as that wasn't the reason they were back in the dungeons that evening. They'd finished brewing the Impervio slightly ahead of schedule, and had received an owl from Lovegrove almost as soon as they'd sent off the vials. He supposed it was down to the increased activity of the Aurors. He'd told Aurelius about it at the end of one of his lessons, and they were going to devote several weekends to producing a number of batches of the required potion. "No," he said, honestly. "I'm quite capable of brewing that myself."

Aurelius, who would one day inherit the Snape Pharmaceutical Company, and had been taught the theory behind Veritaserum when he was eleven, nodded. "I suppose I should ask the obvious question, then," he said. "What _do_ you want me for?"

"Your education is about more than just Potions," Quintus said gently. It wasn't just Aurelius who could jump the gun. "You're the heir."

His cousin nodded, an almost distracted look in his black eyes. "What are you teaching me?" he asked suddenly.

"You already know." Quintus' voice was deliberately casual, but he didn't take his eyes away from his cousin. From the face that was at once so like and so unlike his own.

"A Slytherin, taking lessons in politics from a Ravenclaw," Aurelius said dryly. "What _is_ the world coming to?" 

"I'm not likely to improve upon your innate talents there," Quintus replied. "I am, however, giving you enough information about current events to allow you to apply your Machiavellian mind to more than just House matters."

"To ensure the survival of our family and our business in times that are less than certain," Aurelius said, as though quoting from something. He was silent for a moment, a line creasing his brow, and Quintus felt sure he knew what he was thinking. _Grindelwald's not likely to trouble us, is he, because if he invades successfully, he'd want to make use of us and the business, he wouldn't be concerned about legality so we'd be free to brew whatever we wanted, and the Ministry knows this, which is why we're placating them by taking orders, and I suppose they've struck some deal with my father_.

"My father knows what we're doing, then?" Aurelius asked, and the Potions master was pleased to see that in this, at least, he'd followed his cousin's thoughts exactly.

"He does," Quintus conceded.

"Is this, perhaps, why he wants me home for Christmas?"

"It is," the Potions master said. Although he hadn't been _sure_ that Valerius was going to summon Aurelius back to Summerisle that year, it'd been highly likely. Especially when recent events were taken into consideration. He wondered whether Ministry officials would be visiting his home that year. Whether Aurelius would be invited to meet them. He felt certain that the Ministry would try to tighten its links with the powerful pureblood families, to secure their loyalty, and wondered just whether the Malfoys, the Rosiers, the Blacks and the Lestranges would prove as _useful _as his own family. Valerius Snape was certainly outwardly loyal to the Ministry, but Quintus knew that family concerns would always come first. Not just for Valerius, but for any pureblood patriarch. Julius Malfoy, Titus Lestrange, Edward Rosier – these men would put their families first and foremost, choosing their allegiances to further their own interests. William Black would do the same – although his only son, Verity, the family heir, was a Gryffindor. Quintus wondered just how strong a link the boy would be in the chains of intrigue that were forged by the Slytherin-headed families. The boy was definitely talented, high marks in all his classes, but it would take a good deal more than wand-work and academic success to get ahead in the world. Bravery was commendable, but it wouldn't help you in politics. _An honest politician_, so the old saying went, _is a dead politician_.

"So he must know about the visionweavers, then," Aurelius mused, his brow furrowed. "If you're both working for the Ministry, that is, and he _is_ the head of the family. That information must be part of the deal."

"Your father has been asked to brew certain Sustenance Potions for the remaining visionweavers," Quintus said. "I believe he's unaware as to their identities and locations, however." _Or else he just didn't see fit to share that information with me._

"Grindelwald used Sustenance Potions too," Aurelius said, absently. "To prolong their usefulness."

"Quite," Quintus replied, but his mind wasn't on the similarities between the Ministry's tactics and those of Grindelwald. He was thinking about Elspeth Haven's spider tattoo. It was highly unlikely that the Divination teacher was a visionweaver – he'd taken the opportunity to read up on the subject after the Halloween feast. Visionweavers had very short lives, even with strong Sustenance Potions. The average life expectancy for a weaver was something in between twenty-five and thirty. He'd learned that Elspeth Haven was thirty-three, and the woman showed no signs of decline. There were, of course, some very, very disgusting potions that could prolong life in a person – they were the Unforgivable Curses of potions. They weren't for the squeamish. Based upon the concept of a life for a life, an unborn child would have to be sacrificed, for want of a better word, to provide certain necessary ingredients. The potion gained potency if the child was that of the potion-drinker – but there was no point in prolonging your life if you'd just spend even longer rotting in Azkaban. Quintus didn't think Elspeth Haven was secretly brewing up any of these potions – and he didn't think she was ordering any from his uncle, either. It wasn't as if Valerius Snape had a surplus of unborn babies to abort.

But mortality aside, there was another reason Quintus didn't think the Divination teacher was a visionweaver. He'd learned that visionweaving trances were liable to last for days, burning up huge reserves of the weaver's energy, and between trances the weaver usually suffered horrible dizzy spells and fainting fits – there was no way a visionweaver would be capable of teaching Hogwarts students. From what he'd gleaned from Aurelius' book, Quintus knew that most visionweavers preferred to live in almost total isolation, in order to keep their subconscious mindstream uncontaminated. He'd skimmed that part, never having been particularly fond of Divination. Of course, he was now hard pressed to find an explanation for her tattoo that didn't involve Grindelwald. That would cast a whole new light on her relationship with Octavius Malfoy, for starters. Perhaps spiders were not the sole property of the visionweavers. Perhaps the symbol was familiar to all Seers. Perhaps Elspeth just liked spiders – a remarkably odd choice of familiar, Quintus thought, but there was no accounting for taste.

In spite of himself, his mind returned to the scene in her bedroom. _Leave the green one out_. The fact that Elspeth was undoubtedly attractive – as was Octavius, for that matter – had only made his discomfort worse. The two worldly, obviously experienced people were very good at unsettling him, he'd found. There were times when Quintus rather wished he'd not joined the Hogwarts staff straight after his NEWTs. It wasn't that he didn't have experience in such things because he _did_ – it was more that he felt remarkably _sheltered_ when faced with Octavius Malfoy. Naïve. And the blond man knew it. Ever since Halloween, the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher had taken to smirking at him, for want of a better description – giving him looks that were patronizing, amused, knowing and lascivious all at the same time. It was the kind of expression that shouldn't exist, and wouldn't work with anyone else's face – but Octavius Malfoy pulled it off. The man had _definitely_ enjoyed Quintus' discomfort on the day that Elspeth Haven returned to work. The woman had smiled her thanks, her face turned guilelessly up to his, her hand resting on his arm, and Quintus was sure she'd been standing a _lot_ closer than was strictly necessary, too. He could feel the warmth radiating from her body, she was so close. When she'd risen onto her toes to kiss his cheek, his eyes had automatically turned to the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher standing behind her. Octavius hadn't taken his gaze from Quintus for a second. Another man would perhaps have been jealous, Quintus had thought, but Octavius seemed decidedly pleased by it all. The curl of his lip in what passed for a smile indicated as much. And the look in his eyes suggested that the woman had hardly started with Quintus.

The Potions master wasn't entirely sure what game the two Slytherin alumni were playing with him. They could simply be amusing themselves with him – but there could be more serious implications. He'd seen Elspeth's spider tattoo, and Octavius knew that he'd seen it. There was a distinct possibility that he was being toyed with, in order to distract him from pursuing the matter any further. The morally ambiguous Octavius Malfoy was known to like boys just as much as he liked girls – he was certainly doing a very good job of making Quintus nervous. The Potions master had done his best to stay away from the two teachers, without making his disquiet obvious – but whenever he passed Octavius in the hallways, or saw him at mealtimes, their eyes met and he knew that the tall blond man could see right through him. It was more than unnerving. He was downright flustered. He wasn't used to being _pursued._ Although no one had ever been unkind enough as to _tell_ him, Quintus had the sneaking feeling that he wasn't especially good in bed. At school, he'd had a few girlfriends, although never anything serious. Since his employment as a teacher he'd hardly the opportunity for such things, although he'd met several old girlfriends down in Hogsmeade from time to time. But neither his weekends away with Flavia Nott, nor his lessons from Valerius had prepared him for the combined force of Elspeth and Octavius.

Aurelius seemed to have sensed his withdrawal into his own private thoughts, because his cousin began to make his way quietly to the door, History of Magic essay in hand. Quintus didn't notice until he heard the sound of the door opening.

"The weekend, then," he said, looking over to where his cousin had paused, as if unwilling to leave the room.

Aurelius nodded wordlessly, and left. The door swung shut behind him.

*

"You," Tom said, not bothering to disentangle himself from her satiated embrace, "will be going nowhere fast if you keep this up."

Constance smiled, her eyes shut. "I'm touched by your concern," she murmured into his chest. 

"I've never heard it called _that_ before," the dark haired boy said. She heard him snickering softly as he traced languid spirals over her stomach with a long white finger. "But I stand by my point," he added lightly, just as she opened an eye to look at him with renewed interest. "We've got work to do."

"I am working," she protested, opening her other eye to perfect the wide-eyed innocent look she'd been developing for years. "Research. It's very _important_."

"I'm sure it is," Tom said skeptically, shifting into an upright position. He leaned over to pull her unbuttoned blouse into a state that could almost pass for decency, covering the marks he'd made on her shoulders and chest, then kissed her on the forehead. 

"It _is_," she insisted, running her hand down his back. "Seers get up to all kinds of things – I'm just trying to give my essay some credibility."

"Your thirst for knowledge is commendable," he replied, imprisoning her wandering hand gently but firmly within one of his own. "But I, alas, am not studying the Sight at present, and your research techniques are highly distracting."

"Good," she said, her smile deepening as her free hand snaked around his waist, pulling him close again. "Too much work and you'll only make yourself ill."

"Somehow," Tom said, his tone dry as his lip curled into what was not quite a smile. "I doubt you're speaking from personal experience."

It was her turn to snicker. "I'm not the type to inflict suffering on myself," she said, tightening her hold on him. "Others, yes. Am I very wicked?"

He laughed at that, his breath as warm as his kisses against her throat. "Not at all," he said. "In fact, you're surprisingly innocent," he added.

The protestation she'd been about to make died an easy death on her lips as he kissed her. Nevertheless, as she felt the first tremors of desire run through her, she wondered just how innocent _he_ was. 

Constance wasn't sure how to describe their relationship. Secretive; after that first sealing of their indefinable alliance in the Slytherin common room, they'd taken to meeting only in the Zalaras Wing. Less likely to be caught, that way – they were both quite adept at sneaking around the castle undiscovered. And there was more to it than pure physical attraction, she was sure. During their fervent kisses, their tangled embraces, their individual shuddered thrills that, whilst limited, were decidedly unchaste, she felt as though she were about to discover some great truth, something that was concealed for her and her alone, something that she would discover if she could only go deep enough – but instead she found herself no longer sure who she was, or who _he_ was that he could do what he did to her when he touched her – 

– and though she trembled, clung to him, rocked against him, drew blood as her nails dug into him, she knew that she did not know him, in the absolute sense, and so she was still an innocent after all.

"Innocent," she repeated, speaking her thought out loud as he drew away from her, and whatever it was he saw in her face made him smile momentarily. A tired smile, that didn't quite reach his eyes. But then, it _was_ almost three o'clock in the morning.

"Surprisingly," he replied, reaching for what remained of his shirt. She watched, slightly embarrassed, as he covered himself, the marks she'd made on him. His scar, the pentagram, had been hidden since the night in the common room – she hadn't brought up the subject again. He'd not meant her to see it in the first place. _And it's not the kind of thing you bring up in casual conversation_, she thought.

Constance looked disconsolately at the piles of books cluttering the floor around them. All hers, of course, although she didn't feel particularly inclined to do anything about them at that particular moment. Tom, ever tidy-minded, had placed his upon the tea table shortly after he'd arrived. The hungry glint in his eyes had told her that schoolwork had been the last thing on his mind – she wondered whether he'd given Marcus and Regal instructions to make themselves scarce that night. Her brother had certainly left in a hurry several hours ago, after their dueling practice, pausing only to murmur some implausible excuse about a potentially romantic assignation - with a girl who was most certainly _not_ a Slytherin, and very unlikely to be interested in Marcus Malfoy. Remembering that, she sat up suddenly, wrapping her discarded robes around her for modesty's sake.

"He's gone to meet _Minerva McGonagall_?" she asked incredulously, as she remembered the coolly arrogant smirk on her brother's face as he'd announced the identity of the girl he was meeting. "He was joking – wasn't he?"

"I don't think so," Tom replied calmly. Now fully dressed, he stood up, dusting off his clothes. His eyes met hers with a flash of the startling hilarity she'd noticed in him before, then he moved over to his books. "Don't you approve?"

"No I do not! It's _perverse_," she exclaimed, shocked at the thought of her brother involved with the decidedly prim McGonagall. "She's – and he's – it's just not right."

"Not right in the slightest," Tom agreed, his eyes glinting wickedly. "But it'll certainly give Dumbledore a nice shock when he finds out. Maybe even a heart attack – now that _would_ be an all-round happy ending."

She laughed, delighted at his malice. "He _would_ be rather scandalized, wouldn't he – my horrid brother corrupting the virtuous Minerva – actually, I'm rather impressed. She never struck me as an easy nut to crack."

"She's _not_," Tom said, smiling. "Not easy in the least. He's been after her for all of three weeks, now, and he's _still_ not cracked it. Rather a blow to his self-esteem, I think."

"Aww, my heart bleeds for the poor boy," Constance said, with false sympathy. "Three whole weeks?"

"So much for the Malfoy charm," Tom said, looking at her with considerable amusement. "I've never found it hard to resist, myself." 

She shot him a scowl that was decidedly lacking in vindictiveness. "But is there a _purpose_ to his little liaison?" she asked, pursuing a minor concern. "Other than to annoy Dumbledore? I mean – he doesn't actually _like_ her, does he? He's not going to be all sentimental, sappy, and, well – _boring_ from now on, is he?" 

"Don't worry," the dark haired boy replied, picking up his copy of _Prefects Who Gained Power_ with studied nonchalance. "I don't think he'll be inviting her over for Christmas dinner any time soon."

"He'd better not," she said, disgusted. "For _her_ sake. Otherwise I might find myself practicing my vile and nasty curses upon something other than a house-elf. I'm not having her cluttering up our humble abode, not now, not _ever_."

"Humble abode?" Tom repeated, his eyebrow raised suspiciously. "Malfoy, you _lie._"

"Flat on my back, and you weren't complaining earlier," she said instantly, blowing him a kiss. Surprisingly, _that_ of all things caught him off-guard. He flushed slightly as she continued. "Alright, although I'm not one to boast – much," she added, seeing his rather doubtful expression, "our abode isn't _that_ humble."

"That's strange," the dark haired boy commented dryly. "Because _I'd_ always pictured you as the type to be living in a bomb shelter."

"I'm guessing that's not a pleasant place to live," Constance remarked cheerfully as she stood up and picked her way through the piles of books to the chair opposite Tom's. "But then, I'm a decidedly ignorant child, so I may be wrong."

"Remain ignorant," Tom replied, his tone so light she knew it was deliberate. "Bomb shelters stink, and they're ugly. And _you'll _never need to use one, so keep your mind pure and unsullied."

She was silent for a moment, resisting the urge for flippancy that she thought must be innate within her. Of course she knew perfectly well what bomb shelters were – she didn't lead _that_ ignorant a life. Although Diagon Alley and other wizarding areas were protected from bombs by strong Repelling Charms, and although she'd simply never _been_ in Muggle London before – she knew perfectly well that it wasn't a pretty sight. The wizarding newpapers often reported upon what she thought of as the Muggle War – she'd heard about the Blitz, had heard Muggleborn students talking in hushed tones about potential German invasions, had heard about U-boats, rations, Churchill. But her knowledge of Muggle matters wasn't exactly comprehensive. Far from it. She'd heard about these things from a distance. They belonged to another world, one that was alien to her. One she didn't want to see for herself – unless Tom was there to show her.

"The war," she began, then paused, unsure of how best to continue. It would take their conversation onto a different level, almost as personal as the one they'd had about his scar. And she wasn't sure whether she had any _right_ to question him, to pry for information that was his to give when, or rather, if, he chose. She couldn't imagine a truly intimate conversation with him, one in which they were both at ease. But perhaps that was just a result of her own inexperience in such things. After all, she didn't go around having many intimate conversations with anybody herself. It wasn't as if she felt the need to spill all her inner secrets to him – she didn't think she actually _had_ any, for starters, and she was quite certain that she'd cringe if she ever started spouting the kind of emotional gibberish to which Teresa was partial. "Is it so much worse for Muggles, then?" 

He looked straight at her, incredulity clear in his turquoise eyes as he searched hers – for what, she wasn't sure. Another uncertainty, and she schooled herself, her features, to give nothing away. "Of _course_ it is," he replied finally, as though answering a particularly stupid question. Which, she supposed, he was. She hadn't meant to sound quite that inane – but if it prompted him to talk, it was all to the good. 

"Grindelwald – he's hardly _touched_ Britain – he's letting Hitler and the German army do all the work," Tom said seriously. At least, she thought he was in earnest, but then he continued with a smirk. "In fact, when you consider the fact that Grindelwald has been rising since around about 1915, you've got to wonder just how committed he actually _is_ to the goal of ultimate world domination."

"He's a disgrace to the very title of Dark Lord," Constance said, amused in spite of herself by Tom's dryly-sarcastic tone. "If such a thing is possible."

"Oh, it's definitely possible," the dark haired boy continued, warming to his theme. "He's _lazy_, relying on a Muggle like Hitler to do all his dirty work. _Not_ that Muggles aren't perfectly capable of blowing each other to hell and back – because believe me, they _are_. It's almost laughable, really. Only a few decades ago they were fighting the war to end all wars – now they're at it _again_."

"Isn't it supposed to be a just war this time?" she asked, remembering Binns' vague ramblings on the subject of the First Muggle World War. "Good against evil, or something?"

"Oh, I expect so," Tom said dismissively. "But to be brutally honest, they're all as bad as each other. Hitler gives ugliness a whole new meaning, and he can't write for peanuts – I'm a strong believer in form over content, and there's nothing more immoral than a badly written book. Stalin's got a revolting moustache, and Churchill's just boring. Well, _I_ never felt particularly inspired after hearing one of his speeches on the wireless, anyway."

"Not that you're superficial, or anything," Constance said, raising an eyebrow. "Form over content, _honestly_."

"I may be a nihilist, but I love beauty," he quoted, smiling at her. "And there's nothing beautiful in this war – not on the Muggle side anyway. But I'm well out of it now."

"Oh?" she asked. "Why?"

"Because I'm never going back to the Muggle world," he said, with what she suspected was the most sincerity he'd ever shown. "They can have their wars, their revolutions, their battles – I want none of it."

"But – don't you live there? During the holidays, at least?"

"Not anymore," he replied. "I've always stayed here during the Christmas holidays, and Dippet made special arrangements for me last summer so I didn't have to go back."

"You were here? All summer? On your own?" Constance asked in disbelief. "Weren't you _bored_?"

"Oh, I managed to find ways to entertain myself," he replied tranquilly. "Besides, I wasn't on my own. _Dumbledore_ was here, along with Pringle and a few other members of staff. And your uncle kept turning up to make sure I wasn't getting _too_ bored."

"He should've brought you back with him," she said. "You should have stayed with us."

"He would have done," Tom said, "but it was better for me to stay, I think. Then, anyway."

"You're not staying here next summer, are you?" she asked.

"No," the dark haired boy replied, suddenly very interested in the spine of his book.

"You should come to us," she said. To decrease the significance of her suggestion, she added, "Marcus' friends visit all the time, and Aurelius and Richard have practically moved in – it wouldn't be a problem."

"So your brother told me," the dark haired boy murmured. "He invited me to join you for Christmas a while ago – I wasn't sure whether you knew. Or whether you'd mind."

"Marcus isn't particularly forthcoming at the best of times," she said acerbically. "But I'd be _quite_ happy to have you at home."

Tom Riddle's smile was positively wicked, then. "Gives us both something in common, then."

*

"Tea, Christopher?"

Albus Dumbledore was holding a very large teapot. Not just any old teapot, the Chantwork teacher noted with mild surprise, but a teapot shaped like … a two-story house. There were china roses all around the painted windows, and a little signpost attached to the door. The Burrow. Presumably the name of the house. Teapot. Whatever the right title was for such a – strange looking thing. There was also a chimney on top – to serve as a handle, he supposed, but then realized that there was steam billowing from this protrusion. It was mostly curiosity, rather than a genuine thirst, which led him to nod politely in response to the Deputy Head's question.

"Yes, please – no sugar," he replied, watching in fascination as the auburn haired wizard poured a steady stream of tea into a mug. The tea-pot-house looked remarkably impractical, and Christopher couldn't figure out how it stayed together. The wonders of modern magic, he supposed.

"Is it Earl Grey?" he asked, rather belatedly, taking the large earthenware mug as it was passed to him across the table.

The Transfiguration professor – Christopher still felt awkward about addressing him as Albus – shook his head. "Yorkshire," he said, cheerfully.

"The tea of champions," Matthew Seraphim said lazily, picking up a slice of bread and butter from a willow-patterned plate. "Refreshing heroes since 1886."

"Well," Christopher said, taking a sip. "I suppose I can get away with it this once - just so long as nobody tells the Grey Lady about this."

"How so?" the Head of Gryffindor asked, curiously. "It's only tea."

"Ah, but you see – it's become the unofficial Ravenclaw beverage. The Earl was related to the Grey Lady, or so she says – and she gets very upset if we don't show our respect," Christopher explained. "She's even got the Slytherins drinking it now, so I hear."

"The Bloody Baron's always had a soft spot for the Lady Grey," the Transfiguration teacher said in response to Matthew's puzzled frown. "For a decidedly antisocial ghost who's believed to have murdered at least eighteen people, he can be remarkably gallant at times." 

"So the Slytherin ghost's a serial killer," the Head of Gryffindor said, rolling his eyes in exasperation. "That explains a lot."

"Now, nothing was ever _proved_," the auburn haired wizard replied, smiling mischievously. "Besides, our Sir Nicholas ushered quite a few souls into the next world himself, or so he'd like us to think – would you pass me a muffin, my dear boy?"

This last was directed to Christopher, who was sitting next to a large plate of chocolate muffins. As he passed the plate over to the Deputy Head, he found himself able to relax for the first time that day. They were seated around a circular table in Albus Dumbledore's chambers – a remarkably cozy place with books and scrolls and parchments stacked higgledy-piggledy against most of the walls. An Egyptian relic that looked to be solid gold, with a jewel in the centre, was perched upon a copy of _Nymphs and Their Ways,_ whilst a simple brown metronome was in turn resting upon a thick leather bound edition of _Is Man A Myth? _Every available surface was covered with _things_ – the Transfiguration teacher had countless fantastic and exotic items placed side by side with the mundane.

"A gift from Henry, for my ninety-first birthday if I remember rightly," Albus Dumbledore said, seeing Christopher's interest in the gold medallion. "Very important Egyptian artifact – but no use at all to us here in Scotland."

"Henry?" the Chantwork teacher asked curiously.

"Henry Jones _Binns_," Matthew explained. "He wasn't christened 'Professor', you know."

"Why, our History of Magic teacher was _quite_ the adventurer back when I was a boy," the Deputy Head said, smiling at some obviously long-distant memory. "Why, I remember hearing about his exploits in Alexandretta – but perhaps that's a story that can be left for another day. Do help yourself to some food, Christopher, you look starving."

He _was_ starving, Christopher realized as he picked up a cucumber sandwich. He'd skipped lunch that day in order to avoid the sympathetic glances he'd been getting from various members of staff ever since Anita Skeeter had seen fit to publish the identities of the missing Aurors in the Daily Prophet. She'd written a very lurid article, as usual, filled with speculation, hearsay and unconfirmed facts. She'd also suggested various ways in which the Aurors might have died, each one more grisly than the other. It had been a very distasteful reading experience, on the whole, and Christopher was amazed that such a thing had got past the editor. He'd said as much to Quintus, when his friend had knocked on his door that morning to warn him. _Apart from anything else_, Quintus had replied in an attempt at levity, _it's very badly written_. His friend had then gone on to offer his skills as a poison-brewer in a highly illegal fashion, and the image of Anita Skeeter falling victim to a few drops of her own bottled drivel had cheered Christopher up immensely. 

It wasn't that he'd been _ungrateful_ for Terry Boot's concern that morning at breakfast, far from it – but somehow the Care of Magical Creatures teacher had a painful knack of saying the wrong thing. What was intended to be reassuring came out as incredibly depressing. And the few students who'd offered their condolences after their Chantwork lesson had been so ill at ease that he'd found himself increasingly self-conscious. He'd appreciated the thought – but still. He found Quintus' cups of tea – _proper_ tea – and vitriolic anti-Skeeter diatribes much more comforting.

As though sensing his mood, the Transfiguration professor said quietly, "I was very sorry to hear about your brother," he said, his face solemn. "We all were. He kept in touch with a few of us after he left Hogwarts – he'll be missed." 

"Thank you," Christopher replied, instantly nervous again. He'd guessed that he'd been invited to this small gathering out of compassion, and he'd briefly considered feigning illness – but Matthew had been very persuasive. 

"It must have been a terrible shock for you," Dumbledore continued, his voice warm, compassionate.

"Yes, and no," the Chantwork teacher replied. "John's letters stopped, you see, before I got the Ministry notification, and I think I suspected the worst then. But having it _confirmed_ – we – my family, that is – were told that death was an occupational hazard for an Auror, especially in wartime – but it didn't actually _prepare_ us for it."

Matthew Seraphim had been following the short exchange in silence, his eyes darting from one man to another. "He may still be alive," he offered, with tentativeness unusual for him. "If he's labelled as missing – there could still be hope."

"True," Christopher conceded grimly. "But if he's alive, and a prisoner, I don't see much hope for his return." He'd heard the rumours – they all had – which were circulating the Muggle world and wizarding world alike in regards to the conditions in the enemy prison camps. They were terrifying. When he thought about what allegedly went on in such places, he found himself hoping that John was, in fact, dead. He wondered whether he should feel guilty about this. "I'd know, I think, if he were still alive," Christopher continued, looking at his half eaten cucumber sandwich. "I'd _feel_ it. I think about him now – and there's nothing. My mother's the same. She's convinced he's dead. And – I've found myself hoping that he _is_. If it's better than the alternative."

"This is a war we _cannot_ afford to lose," Dumbledore said softly, into the silence that followed.

Matthew Seraphim nodded agreement. "It's not just wizard against wizard," the Flight instructor said. "Or Muggle against Muggle. When death itself is better than the alternative, we're looking at good against evil, and it involves everyone, everywhere, whether magical or not – the two worlds _have_ to stand together."

A deep silence followed Matthew's impassioned statement, broken by the chinking of the teapot as Dumbledore refilled his cup. The sound of tea trickling through the spout was oddly reassuring, Christopher thought. Familiar. A sign of civilization. The British Empire was founded upon tea. Everybody drank tea, from the royal family to the working classes. In times of trouble, people made tea. It was the universal panacea. 

"Has the Headmaster thought any more about my suggestion?" the Flight instructor asked, rubbing his forehead. He seemed decidedly more subdued than he had been only moments ago.

Albus Dumbledore nodded. "His answer is still unchanged," the Deputy Head said gently. "Without proof, he can't do anything."

__

Octavius Malfoy, of course, Christopher thought, remembering the conversation he'd had with Matthew about the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher. It was funny – the man hadn't bothered toning down his obvious dislike of Christopher since the publication of his brother's possible fate, but Christopher was more reassured by that than he would've been by any declarations of false sympathy. At least the man was consistently nasty. 

"But –"

"I have to agree with him," Dumbledore continued, cutting off Matthew's protest. His blue eyes fixed the Flight instructor in a penetrating gaze. "Here, we can keep an eye on his activities – elsewhere, he'd be free to do as he pleased."

"Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer," Christopher murmured.

"Exactly," Dumbledore said, seemingly pleased.

"He'll be filling Slytherin heads with all kinds of poison," Matthew said resentfully. "I _know_ him. I know what he's like, what he can do to people. He's laughing at us. He's a snake – rotten through and through."

At Matthew's mention of Slytherin, Christopher was sure he'd seen something like anxiety flash across Dumbledore's face. Only for a split second, then it was replaced with his usual calm. "Slytherin House is the responsibility of Nadine de la Tour," Dumbledore said simply. "_Not_ Octavius Malfoy."

Matthew made a soft, impatient sound. "That doesn't mean anything," he retorted. "The Malfoys have a stranglehold on this school – they practically run the Board of Governors, they've got family on staff, and two in Slytherin – they can do what they _want_."

"Don't be so quick to judge them all by Octavius," Dumbledore said as he slipped his spectacles off his nose, and began to polish them. "I _know_ what he's done," he said, as Matthew looked about to protest again, "but we cannot judge a family by the actions of one member. They are, after all, innocent until proven guilty."

"You're too trusting," Matthew said, bitterly. "They will take advantage of that. It's quite likely that _Octavius_ already has," he said, his voice laden with some significance that Christopher failed to grasp.

The Transfiguration professor's eyes flashed. "I don't trust _blindly_," he said. "But I do trust freely. There's a subtle difference – one which you, I believe, are still capable of appreciating, if you could just let go of the past."

"If I hadn't been given a very painful lesson on the subject, perhaps," the Flight instructor said, and he sounded very tired. "You _know _what happened in Siberia. I will not let that happen again, believe me. Not now, not here."

"Nevertheless," Dumbledore continued implacably, "Trust does not make you weak. In itself, it is not a flaw, and you cannot allow the actions of another to influence who _you_ are." 

Christopher was listening in silence, aware that he'd been right in thinking that Matthew's hatred for Octavius Malfoy did run deeper than House rivalry. It was personal, and it had apparently damaged his friend in some way. _Siberia_. He hadn't known that Matthew had been there, and he hadn't known that the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher had been there. Whatever happened had presumably occurred before the blond man returned to teach at Hogwarts. Christopher wondered if Matthew would ever tell him what had passed between them. 

__

Not likely to happen today, he thought, watching as his friend shifted uncomfortably before Dumbledore's piercing stare. He'd experienced that kind of discomfort himself, whilst he and Quintus were still students. They'd never been in serious trouble, of course. If you overlooked the time they'd got caught trying to grow certain plants that were most definitely _not_ on the Herbology syllabus near the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest. They'd been serving detention for _months_, and if Quintus hadn't pulled the Potential Potions Master act, it'd probably have been years.

"I'll try not to," Matthew said reluctantly. "But it's for _your_ sake. Not his."

The older man nodded at that, his auburn whiskers quivering. "That's all I ask," he said, then, with the ghost of a smile, "I don't expect miracles, either."

"Just phenomena explicable only by divine intervention?" the Flight instructor sniped, without real malice.

Dumbledore positively beamed. "That'll do nicely."

*

"I am not going to concentrate on the historical aspect of the Sight," Professor Haven said, as she seated herself on her desk, "in as much as I am not going to focus on Grindelwald – that area is entirely your responsibility. My involvement with your assignment begins and ends with ensuring you know the difference between visionweaving and Seeing." The Divination teacher, still looking rather pale as a result of her most recent experience of the Sight, paused to examine each of the seated students carefully. 

As the red haired woman's gaze landed upon her, Constance did her best to look intelligent. She tucked her hair behind her ears, and picked up her DictaQuill and met the Divination teacher's green stare with an air that she hoped would manage to convey that she did, in fact, know the difference between visionweaving and Seeing. Her efforts were rewarded with a faintly amused nod from Professor Haven, who then turned her attention elsewhere.

"If you don't understand the principles behind the Sight, you won't understand its importance to Grindelwald and you _certainly_ won't understand the art of visionweaving," the teacher continued, her voice cool as she looked at Stuart Coombes. 

Like Constance, he and three other students had chosen Divination as their minor subject, and as a result, had been instructed to attend several lunchtime sessions to cover the necessary material. It was reasonable enough – they were studying something completely unrelated in their usual lessons and as there were only five of them, Professor Haven had decided it wasn't worth changing the lesson content. She'd held Constance and Stuart back after a lesson to tell them that they could either rely on their own capabilities, or turn up on Friday lunchtime. _Never look a gift horse in the mouth_, Constance had thought, and as it turned out, Stuart Coombes and the other students had been thinking along the same lines. Angus Bones, a curly haired Hufflepuff was currently the object of the Divination teacher's scrutiny, and the remaining two students were both Ravenclaws. Philippe DuPré was a Beauxbatons transfer – and, judging by his physical appearance, a French relative of the Head Boy. Susanna Lessops was a tall, thin girl who rarely spoke in lessons, and seemed to have a complete lack of interest in the world around her. She also played for the Ravenclaw Quidditch team – a Beater, if Constance remembered rightly, and a bloody-minded one at that. Aurelius had loudly wished a horrible death upon her and her family once, after a well-aimed Bludger had nearly knocked him off his broomstick. The supposedly retiring Ravenclaw had retaliated with a vitriolic stream of abuse that had nearly had her sent off the pitch by Professor Seraphim. Some of the insults, Aurelius later told Constance, had been pretty impressive too.

"To understand the principles behind visionweaving, you first need to understand those behind the Sight – what it is to vision spontaneously as opposed to meditatively, the dangers inherent in both types of vision, the degree of accuracy in both types of vision, and the various techniques with which a Seer can induce conditions favourable to trance," the Divination teacher said, pausing so that the five students could copy down what she'd said.

Constance, with no small amount of smugness, eyed her DictaQuill lovingly as it sped across her parchment. Although several teachers had objected to their use – namely Professor Snape, who claimed that the magic used to make the thing work could disrupt the properties any potions in the vicinity – Professor Haven didn't seem to care either way. And Constance approved of anything that saved her having to exert herself. She had more important things to expand her energy on than _writing_.

"Lazy," murmured the Ravenclaw girl, out of the corner of her mouth. "Afraid you'll strain your wrist?"

"It's energy conservation," retorted Constance, equally softly. "Anyway, what's it to you?"

"_You_ call it energy conservation. Ravenclaws face up to the truth, and call it laziness. Amounts to the same thing," Susanna said, almost inaudibly. "A sign of true intelligence."

"To summarize," Professor Haven continued, forcing Constance to return her attention to the lesson, "and remember that this is leaving out a great deal, you'll have to expand upon these issues yourselves – Seers are trained to withdraw into their minds, to sink down beneath the conscious and subconscious levels of thought to where the past, the future, nightmare, fantasy and reality are all one. In this introspective state, the Seer is most receptive to visions."

"But Professor," Stuart interrupted, "you weren't in that state at Halloween, were you?"

Professor Haven smiled thinly at the question, and shook her head. "No," she agreed. "What I have just described is the meditative process – although it's still impossible to force a vision, it is possible to increase the likelihood of a vision occurring. It is, however, quite dangerous – novices can often lose themselves within the vastness of their own minds. This is why inexperienced Seers are supervised during their training."

"What of the other kind, then?" Constance asked, interested. She'd not come across this in such detail in her reading - of course, last time she'd tried to study she'd ended up getting remarkably distracted. Of course, that had had been mostly down to the fact that she'd been in the Zalaras Wing with Tom – but she'd managed to get quite a bit done before she'd given into the temptation to _research_.

"Spontaneous visioning is the more dramatic form taken by the Sight," Professor Haven said slowly, "the visions are usually triggered by some chance event or remark, and the seizure is much more violent and uses up far more energy." She paused, obviously thinking about the events of Halloween. "This kind of vision is often much more significant than meditative visions, as it is strong enough to break through the mental barriers that generally only dissolve in sleep or trance, and they usually occur at the most inappropriate times."

"How do you know what they mean?" Constance asked. "Are there recurring themes, symbols?"

"Some," the teacher replied, "but they feature more strongly in dreams, which are a different matter altogether – although still an important part of the Sight. You don't need to know this for your assignment."

"How did you interpret your Halloween vision?" Stuart asked, his eyes alight with avid curiosity.

Professor Haven frowned slightly, and Constance was sure that the red haired woman's eyes darted in her direction before she answered the boy's question. "I'm a Divination teacher, not an interpreter of riddles," she said. "The matter has been referred to higher authorities." Although her tone was not harsh, it did imply that further questioning on that subject would be fruitless.

"So – how is visionweaving different?" Philippe DuPré asked, his quiet voice somehow carrying throughout the classroom.

"Visionweavers," Professor Haven said, making sure they'd all copied down what she'd said so far, "slip into the meditative state, and, when visioning, use their magical ability to _prolong_ the vision long enough for them to complete the weaving of a tapestry. In this way, they have a record of what they see – and even when the prophecies are less than apocalyptic, the tapestries themselves are priceless."

"But that could take weeks!" protested Angus Bones, speaking for the first time. "Months, even."

"Hardly any weavers manage to sustain visions for that long," the Divination teacher said. "It's incredibly draining, and uses up a lot of the weaver's natural magical ability."

"Why did Grindelwald want visionweavers, though?" asked Stuart. "Wouldn't a Seer do just as well?"

"Quite apart from the prestige value of having a visionweaver at one's beck and call," Professor Haven said dryly, "the tapestries they produce aren't exactly ordinary. They're imbued with magic – they have a number of effects upon those exposed to them. And more – as the weavers create their tapestries they create a more concrete link to the future. As though they, through the choosing of their strands, can help determine fate."

"You mean, in a way, they make the future?" Constance asked, intrigued. This kind of conversation was the reason Aurelius couldn't stand Divination. He had no patience for abstracts. It was why he was so good at Potions. Even Richard, despite his many eccentricities, preferred the cold formality of numbers, of Arithmancy. Constance, however, found logic remarkably bothersome at the best of times. She liked things that were mysterious, incomprehensible. _Strange riddles_, she thought, and smiled inwardly. 

"They make _a_ future," the Divination teacher corrected her. "Whether others pursue it is a different story."

As Professor Haven began to describe the darker sides of the Sight – the draining of a Seer's blood could induce longer visions if done correctly, and the mixing of certain Sustenance Potions that were able to keep visionweavers alive for longer – Constance's mind wandered. She'd done a lot of research in that area already, galvanized by Aurelius' claim that he'd actually _finished_ his assignment, and was confident that she had enough to go on. She'd discovered an awful lot about the importance of blood, sex and human sacrifice to Seers throughout history – she'd been amused to discover that despite all the myths about virgins making better Seers, the opposite was actually true. The talent usually blossomed during late puberty – increasing with the sexual drive. And Constance had already read up on the side effects of the Sight. She eyed the Divination teacher speculatively, remembering something Tom had hinted about the red haired woman and her uncle. As she watched her Quill copy down a paragraph on the use of leeches in the inducing of visions, she couldn't help but smirk. According to one book she'd read, the sensations felt by a Seer during a strong seizure were often similar to those felt during the culmination of the sexual act. _Must be bloody good to be a Seer_, she thought, and smiled inwardly. 

*

Sunlight streamed through the Charms classroom window, illuminating the tiny, shimmering dust particles that hung in the air. It was one of those days that didn't fit with the season, Aurelius thought. Sunny, moderately warm, and more suited to September than early December. He preferred the cold, himself; having found that it generally made him more alert. Less sluggish. _Ready to face the day, and all that_. Unlike some, he'd never found it difficult to get out of bed on a cold and frosty morning. It looked as though Professor de la Tour, however, felt differently – they were already ten minutes into the lesson, and the Head of Slytherin was conspicuously absent. He couldn't remember whether she'd been in the Great Hall for breakfast, either.

"Look at that," Constance said, eyeing the floating dust with distaste. "That's disgusting. The house-elves want a good kick up the arse, they do."

"The lazy little plebes!" Richard contributed, not looking up from his chaotic, paper-strewn desk. "Should be skinned alive, the worthless little faggots."

"I wouldn't be talking about faggots if _I_ were you, Marlowe," Aurelius said, unamused. "I haven't forgiven you yet."

"For what?" Richard asked, grinning. "Offering you my body? Or – making you wait for it? I mean, I thought you understood – I'm with _Teresa_ at the minute. I'll see if I can fit you in for next Friday, but I've got a bit of a waiting list, I'm afraid."

"Popular, are you?" Aurelius commented dryly. "Beating them off with sticks, are we?"

"Well," the brown haired boy replied, shrugging carelessly. "If you've got it, put it about, lots. It's unfair to expect one person and one person alone to have all the fun! It's selfish, that's what it is."

Constance sniggered. "You sound like _Lockhart_!"

"The man should be an inspiration to us all," Richard said solemnly. "Besides. You wanted Lockhart _bad_, my dear."

"I did not!"

Richard shook his head mournfully. "You did so."

"Did _not_," Constance protested, trying to suppress a grin.

"Did so."

"When you two have _quite_ finished being immature," Aurelius said, rolling his eyes, "let me know."

"I think you'll have a long wait," came the low, unaccented tones of the boy sitting at the desk opposite them. Riddle, as far as Aurelius could tell, had been engrossed in a dog-eared copy of what looked suspiciously like _Swallows and Amazons, _but apparently he'd also been listening in to their conversation. 

"You cheeky sod," Richard said, unfazed. "_I'm_ perfectly capable of being mature, even if Constance isn't."

"Richard," Constance said sweetly, after a split-second's pause that Aurelius did not fail to notice, "maturity requires that you act your _age_, not your shoe size. And certainly not your, erm, _wand_ size," she added, with a meaningful glance at Richard's lower body. "You see, Teresa's told us _all_ your little secrets."

"Emphasis on the _little_," Aurelius added, watching with a sense of immense satisfaction as Richard went a deep shade of red. Of course, Teresa hadn't told Constance any such thing – but revenge was revenge, and it didn't need to be based on anything remotely resembling truth. That being said, Aurelius _hadn't_ forgotten what had prompted Richard's ever-so-romantic display in Transfiguration. And although he'd been certain at the time that Richard's suspicions were unfounded, the quickly concealed glint in Constance's eyes when the halfblood had interrupted them (and a few similar incidents before that) had left him - less sure. 

"I'm a manly man," Richard protested. "And I have a big, big wand. And I'm skilled with my wand, and I'm good with my wand, and sod you all, I'm going to finish writing this essay before you humiliate me any further."

"That's not Charms," Constance said, leaning rather inelegantly over his shoulder for a better view. "That's my uncle's essay, isn't it?"

"Give the girl a biscuit," the brown haired boy retorted. "This, my dear, is why I hate your family with all my heart. Your uncle is a sadistic git, and I hope he dies, tormented with pain and all sorts of mortal anguish."

"Don't blame my uncle for your own _ineptitude_," Constance said, scowling. "If you can't tell the difference between the bloody Unforgivables at your age, you really should consider leaving school and getting a nice, simple job. Packing sweets at Honeydukes, perhaps, arranging all the Sugar Quills into nice, orderly piles."

"Or shoveling coal on the Hogwarts Express," Aurelius suggested, watching Riddle watch Constance out of the corner of his eyes. "Nothing too taxing, though. Wouldn't want to damage the few little grey cells you have left."

"Is this the essay we were set last week?" Tom asked suddenly. "The impact of the Killing Curse on modern dueling techniques?"

"That's the one," Richard answered. "Just an excuse for her uncle to drool over his childhood hero, isn't it, Constance dear?"

"Oh, just die," Constance said. "Contrary to popular belief, my uncle does _not_ fantasize over the creators of the Killing Curse." 

"No, just one of them," Richard corrected her gleefully. "Gesius Lott!"

"The inferior partner, in my humble opinion," Tom interjected, with a dryness to his voice that Aurelius didn't quite understand at first. Then he remembered – Lott's partner had been related to Riddle. Strange, and unsettling, to realize that Tom Marvolo Riddle's wizarding blood was from just as good a line as Aurelius' own. If not better. _What a pity that his mother had to go and ruin it all_, Aurelius thought, distinctly unsympathetically. He could care more about Riddle's mother's bad choice of mate.

"But then, your uncle's always been a bit weird, if you ask me," Richard continued, with all the inevitability of an avalanche.

"Which I didn't," the blonde girl murmured. "But that's never made any difference to you, has it?"

"None whatsoever," Richard replied, obviously recovered from his shame of only moments before. "I can see the scene now – a young Octavius, sitting chewing his quill one sunny day in History of Magic, perhaps, his mind roaming free amongst the shadowy figures of the past…"

"What do you want to do when you grow up, Mr. Malfoy?" Aurelius said, mimicking the voice of Professor Binns.

"Gesius Lott, sir!" Richard answered, in an impossibly high, quivering falsetto. 

Constance scowled. "My uncle does _not_ sound like that."

"I said what, not who, Mr. Malfoy!" Aurelius continued, ignoring Constance's feeble squawk of protest.

"Avada Kedavra, sir!" Richard said, brandishing his quill dramatically.

"I think you're supposed to use a wand for that," Tom pointed out. "A quill just doesn't have the same effect."

"Fine," the brown haired boy said, picking up his wand and adopting a vaguely Lockhartian pose as he pointed it directly at Aurelius. Then he bellowed, "Avada Kedavra!"

"What the _f_ –" Aurelius exclaimed, not noticing the sudden hush in the classroom as he slid low in his chair. Attempting to avoid impending death, he flung his textbook at Richard. He missed, however, and the book landed at the feet of the one person who could make the situation even more embarrassing. "Oh _shit_."

"My sentiments exactly, Mr. Snape," said Professor Malfoy, looking at him with a remarkable lack of warmth. "Although I, unlike yourself, have the excuse of acting as a substitute Charms teacher for this lesson to justify my ill-temper, I would, nevertheless, be quite interested to hear the story behind your – ah – little outburst."

"Wouldn't we all," agreed one of the Ravenclaws on the other side of the classroom, with a very nasty smirk_. Susanna Lessops, the biggest bitch on the Quidditch pitch, _Aurelius thought, and shot her a filthy glare_. At least it's not the Gryffindors, _he thought, trying to look on the bright side_._

"Five points from Ravenclaw," Professor Malfoy said, not even turning round to check he'd got the right house. The girl didn't seem abashed, though, just shrugged and continued to doodle aimlessly on her parchment. "But do tell us all, Mr. Snape."

__

Oh hell, thought Aurelius, feeling incredibly stupid. _The fates really do hate me, don't they?_ "I, ah, believed that he," and here Aurelius shot Richard the most basilisk of glares, "had just cast the Killing Curse on me. So I retaliated."

Professor Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "A very admirable way to research an essay, Mr. Marlowe – and Mr. Snape, I may be mistaken, but you don't appear to be _dead_."

"Unfortunately," chipped in the irritating Lessops girl again.

"Another five points from Ravenclaw," Professor Malfoy said calmly, "and the more interruptions you make, Lessops, the more points I will take."

As three anxious Ravenclaws silenced the Lessops girl, Aurelius could see Constance trying desperately to maintain a straight face. Silently, he wished a most painful death upon her. _And that goes for you, too_, he thought viciously, noticing Riddle's smirk in her direction. Richard, curse him, had assumed an angelic expression of wounded innocence, that did nothing to help. Aurelius really did feel utterly, and completely ridiculous. Especially as he was fully aware that Richard's curse wouldn't have hurt him anyway – Avada Kedavra required a lot of energy and it took a strong wizard to pull it off. His mortification was increasing rapidly, and he made a mental note to start practicing the Killing Curse on Richard as soon as he got out of this mess. _For research purposes, of course._

"No, I'm not dead," Aurelius said, inwardly cringing. _Go on, state the obvious_. _Make yourself look even more of a puddinghead. _"I believe I may have overestimated the danger. Slightly."

"Slightly," Professor Malfoy repeated, his lip curling. To Aurelius' relief, Constance's uncle seemed to lose interest then, and the tall blond man swirled to face the rest of the class. He didn't look particularly enthused by the faces staring back at him, Aurelius thought. "Obviously, Professor de la Tour is – unable to take today's class," the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher said, drawling irritably. "She has, however, informed me that you were about to begin Advanced Concealing Charms – namely Specific Secret Charms, and the Fidelius Charm – and Mr. Riddle, if that _book_ is not concealed within five seconds, you'll be practicing Concealing Charms in detention tonight –"

Aurelius glanced over in surprise to see Riddle, so usually above reproach, shove _Swallows and Amazons_ back into his bag. Constance, too, had turned slightly to face the expressionless halfblood, and when she returned her attention to her uncle, she looked remarkably thoughtful.

"_He's_ cranky today," Richard muttered, so quietly that Constance couldn't hear. "Riddle's normally his little boy wonder."

"You think so?" Aurelius replied sarcastically. "Maybe if you'd done a better job with your little spell, he'd have been all hearts and flowers. Then _you'd've_ been the boy wonder."

"Sorry about that," the brown haired boy replied, casually. "But – you made yourself look rather dense all by yourself."

Aurelius sneered at him, unable to think of a comeback. Richard's statement had the decided disadvantage of being true, and all the satisfaction Aurelius had had from teasing him earlier had faded.

"Specific Secret Charms," Octavius Malfoy continued, "are not as complex as the Fidelius Charm, but they do require a high level of magical skill. If you turn to page 106 of your textbooks – yours is on the _floor,_ Mr. Snape – you can see that Specifics, as they're known, are directly concerned with the concealment of _information_."

"What kind of information?" one of the Ravenclaws asked.

The Defence against the Dark Arts teacher stared at the girl – Estelle Knight – coldly. "It's _in the book_," he said flatly. "You'll find that the Fidelius Charm is described in great detail on pages 108 through to 111 – and there's a chart comparing the two forms of charm on page 112. So read. Learn. And make notes. _In silence_," the blond man added, stalking over to Professor de la Tour's desk and flinging a thick folder down. "I do _not_ want to be disturbed."

Charms had never been his strong point, Aurelius thought ruefully, eyeing the book he'd picked up off the floor with no real interest, but he began to make notes on the two forms of charm anyway_. Unlike the Fidelius Charm, _he wrote_, Specific Secret Charms do not require a Secret Keeper – once cast, the information is concealed from everyone, with the exception of the spell-caster. The Fidelius Charm, on the other hand, involves the locking of the information to be concealed within another, living, soul. This is useful because the Secret Keeper then has the ability to ensure that the information remains concealed for as long as necessary, regardless of the spell-caster's fate._

After a while, Constance, who had been working industriously for once, frowning over her notes, put her hand up.

"Can it be hereditary?" she asked, and Aurelius noticed Tom tilt his head slightly, to look at her. "The role of Secret Keeper?"

"Shine that apple, girl!" Richard whispered, scribbling all over his parchment. "Maybe you'll get some pocket money!"

Although Aurelius smirked at that, he wondered just whom his friend was shining the apple for – Riddle, smiling, certainly seemed appreciative of Constance's attempt at academic stardom. To say the least. Or perhaps that was just Aurelius' imagination. _I'm getting paranoid_, he scolded himself_. Richard's hardly the most reliable of sources, is he? _

"Curl up and die," Constance muttered back, barely moving her lips.

"Variations upon the Fidelius Charm _are_ possible," Professor Malfoy said, overlooking the two students' whispered exchange. "The charm can be combined with Inheritance Charms, for example – but you can research the rest yourself. This isn't _my_ subject – and speaking of which, I expect my essay to be in first thing tomorrow morning. Presumably Misters Snape and Marlowe will have at least mastered the _theory_ by then."

"Mastered the theory," said Richard scathingly, as they left the classroom. "What does he expect us to do? Go around killing people just so he can get off on it?"

"Do you mind?" Constance snapped. "That's my _uncle_ you're talking about."

"Yes, and he's nuts," Richard said simply. 

"You know, at times like this I understand why my brother can't stand you," the blonde haired girl snapped, and hurried off ahead of them.

"Well done," Aurelius said to Richard, watching Constance stalk off. "Insult her family, humiliate me -_again_ – such a lovely friend you are."

"I am, actually," Richard agreed, looking at him with a half smile. "More than you know."

"We are _not_ going down this road again," Aurelius said firmly, the taunts of Simon and Paul still very fresh in his mind. _The love that dares not speak its name, my arse_. _Richard may as well shout it from the Astronomy Tower._

Richard laughed at that, then fell silent as Tom Riddle walked past them, deep in conversation with Philippe DuPré.

"He definitely likes her," he said softly.

"I know," Aurelius admitted reluctantly, after a brief pause.

"He's staying with them over Christmas, too."

__

That, Aurelius hadn't known. "_She_ didn't invite him," he said at once, unsure as to whether he believed it.

"No," Richard said, "it was Marcus."

"How do you know?" He wasn't sure whether he was relieved that Constance hadn't been responsible, or disquieted by the fact that _Marcus_ thought Riddle was suitable enough to invite home. That – that added a new variable into the equation. It could change a mild flirtation into something more serious. And his father wanted Aurelius back at _Summerisle_ for Christmas….

"Because I'm omnipotent," Richard said cheerfully. "But what will you do? What _will_ you do?"

"I'm not entirely sure," Aurelius replied, frowning. His mind was racing over various possibilities – remembering what Quintus had said about his family's deal with the Ministry, about alliances, and about family loyalty. Only two days until the weekend, until he and his cousin were scheduled to brew more Veritaserum. _A talk with Quintus_, he thought, _might help clarify the issue_. 

*

Although the brewing of Veritaserum was not too demanding for a fully qualified Potions master and his young apprentice, both of whom were Snapes, it did tend to limit any deep and meaningful conversation. With communication reduced to little more than the occasional murmured instruction and appreciative comment, it wasn't until they'd almost finished for the night that Quintus realized that there was something on his cousin's mind. Aurelius, staring at the clutter on the desk, was lost in his own private thoughts, and judging by the bleak expression in his eyes, the Potions master doubted that they were pleasant. He wasn't particularly adept at dealing with the personal feelings of people close to him – the Snape family tended to be somewhat reserved, even at the best of times, and they were liable to resent any uninvited intrusions. However, he'd learned some small measure of sensitivity through his friendship with Christopher –and Aurelius' feelings weren't usually so apparent.

"Sickle for them?" he said casually, wiping his scalpel clean with a damp cloth.

"They're not worth that much," Aurelius said sourly, as he pushed a lank strand of hair out of his face. He glanced at Quintus, as if assessing how interested the Potions master actually was in what he had to say, then raised one shoulder in a shrug. "The deal my father has made with the Ministry –"

"What about it?" Quintus asked, as his cousin paused.

"Is there a similar arrangement between the Malfoys and the Ministry?" 

"I expect so," the Potions master replied thoughtfully. "No doubt the other old families have been approached in some way, but it's your father, not I, who'd be the most likely to know about it. That being said, Julius Malfoy isn't the type to share such information without a more concrete link between our families."

"You mean, without a marriage," Aurelius stated, and the faint bitterness that had been in his demeanour only minutes before had been replaced with a deadly calm.

Quintus nodded, thanking his lucky stars that Valerius Snape had not yet seen the need to marry _him_ off. "That would bring our families closer together – it'd be beneficial to everyone."

"Beneficial," Aurelius repeated, his eyes veiled. "Doesn't this – alliance – depend upon prior knowledge of family loyalties and bargains? I mean," he added as he saw Quintus frown, "if Malfoys were found to be Grindelwald supporters _after_ the marriage, wouldn't we be tainted by association? And vice versa, of course. We can't afford to jump in blindly when family's concerned."

"Part of the fun," Quintus said dryly, wondering yet again just where the Malfoy loyalties lay. "Valerius wants to know what Julius is doing, without letting Julius know what _he_ is doing, and Julius is doing exactly the same thing and they both know that they're doing this, so they edge closer and closer to a suitable compromise – and by the time they get there, Grindelwald will have died of old age, so it's all academic."

"I hope you're not being flippant about all this," Aurelius said with mock severity.

"Far from it," Quintus replied straight-faced. "I have nothing but admiration for the way you Slytherins manage to spend years beating about the bush instead of getting to the point."

"And I admire the way you Ravenclaws have to look the bush up in _We Want A Shrubbery: Ten Things to Do with Bushes_ before you beat about it," Aurelius sniped. "That's true intelligence, that is."

"Don't display your ignorance," Quintus said serenely. "We'd look the bush up in _1001 Examples of Common European Foliage, _a far more intellectual tome. Then we'd cross reference it with various other texts, and then and _only_ then would we beat about it."

At that, his cousin smiled, his expression lightening. "It's a fine art, truly," Aurelius said. "Avoiding plain speech is what being a Slytherin's all about. Our world would fall apart if we started telling the _truth_ - anyway, you're not exactly the blunt and to-the-point type yourself."

It was Quintus' turn to smile as he acknowledged the truth in what Aurelius had said. He was, after all, supposed to be enhancing his cousin's natural cunning. And, although he didn't have quite the mastery that Valerius had, he believed himself to be at least proficient. He viewed things intellectually, logically, perhaps without taking into account all shades of human emotion, but his ability was sufficient. For now it was enough to enable him to analyze the motivation behind his next words, anyway. Perhaps it was the brief moment of shared amusement, perhaps it was because Aurelius looked a lot less like his father when he smiled, or perhaps it was simple familial concern that prompted Quintus to speak further. After all, Aurelius was the closest to a brother he'd ever have. And, although he was the Snape heir, he was still only seventeen - an age that Quintus was thoroughly glad to have passed. He remembered _his_ teenage years all too clearly.

"Is something troubling you?" he asked, just as Aurelius' smile faded. 

Perhaps it was the knowledge that sometimes bluntness could be just as effective as indirect probing. Aurelius breathed out slowly, deliberately, then made a slight, dismissive gesture with his hands. "I'm not sure," he said finally.

Quintus was silent, waiting, a trick he'd learned from Christopher. His friend's quiet, undemanding presence had inspired many a confidence back when they'd been students.

"The Malfoys must have taken steps to secure other potential alliances," Aurelius asked slowly, keeping his voice free from any recognizable emotion. "If they aren't sure of our allegiances."

Quintus, reading between the lines, successfully hid his smile. The dubious joysof being seventeen. Not that he was any wiser. He'd only just turned twenty-four, and was quite easily flustered by certain members of the Hogwarts staff. Of course, such matters were slightly more important when they concerned dynastic union. "It would be surprising if they hadn't," he answered his cousin. "We do the same, after all."

Aurelius shook his head impatiently. "It's not the same," he said. "Lots of time and effort have gone into the foundations of a match with the Malfoys, on _both _sides. Seventeen years this has been coming – I haven't even _met_ the other girls my father's considered. They're purely business transactions."

"You think that Julius has arranged an alternate match for Constance that is less formal than the alternate matches your father has arranged for you?" Quintus said, forsaking any attempt at bush beating. 

"I don't think Julius has had anything to do with it," Aurelius said slowly, his furrowed brow the only indication of the depths of his concern. 

"What?" Quintus asked, more sharply than he'd intended. He tried to soften his tone. "Why not?"

"I – don't think it's that kind of situation." His cousin's black eyes were pensive. Distracted, almost, as he glanced away, over to where the Paragon sailed through dark waters. The painted waves crashed against the bow of the unsmiling ship. It seemed a fitting backdrop for their conversation. Judging by the twist of his lips, Aurelius was obviously thinking similar thoughts as he turned back to face the Potions master. 

"Then what kind of situation is it?" Quintus asked, wondering just what was going on. Julius Malfoy was the head of his family. _He_ was the forger of alliances, marriage contracts. He controlled his family's actions, training his son to succeed him, grooming him for power. Just as Valerius Snape did for the seventeen year old boy sitting scowling at Quintus now. But Marcus Malfoy surely wasn't experienced enough to assume his father's role – and Constance had always seemed far too _scatter-brained_ to become a truly capable player. Although he was probably judging too harshly - Potions wasn't the blonde girl's best subject by a long shot. It was unthinkable to imagine a proper, political alliance being made _without_ Julius Malfoy's knowledge. _Of course_, Quintus thought, with a sudden feeling of unease, _there's always Octavius_. Everything seemed to be about Octavius, now. Grindelwald, prophecies, and now this. The semi-redeemed black sheep of the Malfoy family had his finger in far too many pies for Quintus' liking. He frowned, realizing that he was indulging in pure speculation. _Start with the facts_. "Why don't you think Julius is involved?"

"Because I doubt Julius Malfoy would find this – alternate match – to his advantage," Aurelius said. "Not financially, not politically, not in any of the ways that count."

Quintus looked at him closely. "You know who it is?"

His cousin met his gaze, allowing no feeling to show in his face. "I have an idea."

"Do you have any reason to believe that there is an actual _alliance_ being forged?" Quintus asked, deciding not to press for this supposed rival's identity. Aurelius' carefully neutral expression had implied that further questioning on that subject wouldn't be welcomed – and Quintus was fairly sure he could guess who it was anyway. It was quite surprising that something like this hadn't happened sooner, bearing in mind that the three had been friends for a few years now.

"No," Aurelius replied, looking uncomfortable. "Only instinct. And I'm sure it's got nothing to do with marriage. I have suspicions, but they're based on nothing. Nothing _concrete_, anyway. I may be imagining everything. But –"

"But?"

"There does seem to be some – attraction."

"On whose part?" Quintus asked. Perhaps the situation wasn't as serious as Aurelius seemed to think, bearing in mind the adolescent tendency to blow things up out of all proportion.

His cousin volunteered the information reluctantly, tersely. He was staring fixedly at a spot just above Quintus' head. "Both. I think." 

"Have you mentioned this to her?"

"No."

"Ah," the Potions master said. Then, with slightly more caution, he ventured further. "Have you and she –"

__

"No!"

"Ah," the Potions master said, wondering where to begin. His cousin's denial had been surprisingly vehement, Aurelius' dark eyes glittering with indignation. _Be delicate. Be tactful. Don't dwell on the birds and the bees_. The memory of his own father's painfully unnecessary speech upon the subject of sex still made Quintus' cheeks burn. He'd been nine at the time, and despite what his father thought, he had _never_ given the stork theory any credence. _For heaven's sake_, he scolded himself. _If Aurelius hasn't figured it out by now, Valerius will just have to find himself another heir. I am _no_t giving this talk. Ever._

"It's, ah, possible that she's just harbouring certain, well, feelings," Quintus began awkwardly, noting that Aurelius was also looking very uncomfortable. "And if you haven't – er – indicated any interest yourself – well, she's probably just stretching her wings – or something," he ended lamely.

The look of utter mortification on Aurelius' face told the Potions master he'd done a terrible job of his supposedly reassuring speech. "You mean if I'm not giving it to her, she'll get it elsewhere?" Aurelius demanded, his eyes narrowed.

__

Talk about beating the proverbial bush into submission, Quintus thought. "Well, that was quite crudely put," he murmured, "and I didn't mean _exactly_ that – but you've got the general idea. She's probably just flirting." _Malfoys seem to do a lot of that_, he added mentally.

"A born coquette," Aurelius said levelly. "No harm in that."

"No," said Quintus, thinking about something else. Then – "If this person is as unsuitable as you say, rest assured nothing will come of it. She knows her duty."

"She _is_ a Malfoy," his cousin agreed quietly. There was a flicker of indecision within Aurelius' dark eyes – as though he was engaged in some inner debate – then he appeared to come to a satisfactory conclusion. "I would prefer it – if my father _wasn't_ told about any of this."

The Potions master hesitated for a moment. "You want to handle this on your own?"

"I would prefer it," Aurelius repeated. "Besides," he added, with a trace of humour, "what's a mere trifle like this, compared to what you're supposed to be teaching me?"

"Quite so," Quintus agreed. But he was thinking about someone else.

*****

"I may be a nihilist, but I love beauty" – Dostoyevsky's _The Devils_.

Notes to Reviewers

Faith Accompli: Christmas is coming, you know what I've got planned, and this chapter was an early birthday present for you, you decrepit old hag. 

MartianHousecat: Anachronisms in dialogue stem from the fact that wizarding society is just so much more advanced than Muggles that they coined the phrases first. Honest! As for the Riddlesex – he's not actually in love with _her_ at the moment, as much as what she represents.

TheStrangeOne: O, he knows there's something to worry about. He IS smart. Just…not where Constance is concerned. As regards the Riddlenotquitesex – it _was_ a leap, but in the early hours of the morning she thought it made perfect sense. Marcus wasn't really in this chapter, because there was stuff I needed to get out of the way first. 

Sadie: Lots of Seerstuff here, and if you like Elspeth, you might want to read _Where Souls Do Couch On Flowers_. It should be up in a day or three. 

Badhbh Catha: And now _I_ can't shake off the image of Grindelwald-as-Spiderman. I'd hex you for that, but I'm far too fond of nice reviews. I'm weak.

Azalais Malfoy, Sarah Black: Thanks muchly.

Crucio: Ha. If I were JKR, it'd be "Tom Riddle and the CoS.." and so forth. But thanks anyway.

textualsphinx: Thank you. I've already been accused of romanticizing Slytherins because they're not all Out Crucio-ing Mudbloods before breakfast, so it's nice to see that other people are capable of recognizing how insidious ingrained bigotry is.

Hamlet: Fan of the Smiths, eh? Richard Marlowe's got a lot of Morrissey in him. Azkaban, Here We Come. Etc.


	15. Pretty Girls Make Graves

**Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. With the exception of Tom Riddle, Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall Professor Binns and Armando Dippet, the characters belong to me. The descendants of the Malfoys, Snapes, Blacks and Potters belong to J K Rowling, but I'm sure you could figure that out for yourself. **

**Acknowledgements: This chapter is dedicated to Morrissey, because he probably wrote half of it whilst he had me under the Imperius Curse, hence the title. Secret quote from the Manics here, it's Seraphim's fault. Kevin Smith, too, for the exceedingly unsubtle Dogma reference. I apologize for the delayed publication of this chapter, but when Real Life intrudes, it can be most demanding. Thanks to everyone who reviewed, dahlings.**

The Serpentine Chain Part One

Chapter Fifteen – Pretty Girls Make Graves 

The pebble arced cleanly through the air, a smooth fluid motion, then hit the waters with a splash. Marcus had thrown the stone quite a distance, but the circular ripples were clearly visible as they fanned out across the cold dark surface of the lake. 

"Mine went further," Constance said, although she was a terrible judge of distance and couldn't see clearly from where they were sitting anyway.

Her brother didn't answer at first, but selected a flatter, rounder pebble. Then, with an adroit movement, he sent it skipping across the waters – nine times, Constance counted – before it sank. He waited, and consequently she did too, until the lake stilled again. Only then did he speak, answering the question she'd asked him as they sat down on the grassy banks ten minutes earlier. 

"Yes," he said, his grey eyes focused on a point close to the other side of the lake. "I did invite him for Christmas. It's not a _problem, is it?"_

"Not at all," Constance replied swiftly, slightly disturbed by the trace of amusement in her brother's voice. "But – why?"

Marcus, her brother – and role model throughout the earlier years of her childhood – glanced at her through slanted eyes. "Well," he began, the corner of his mouth twitching, "it was either Tom or Minerva."

Constance gave him a _look. _

"A difficult decision, as you can no doubt imagine – but in the end I thought that it'd be better if I asked him," her brother continued, smirking as she rolled her eyes. "After all, he's on friendly terms with the both of us – and you'd just be _awful to Minerva because you're spoiled and rotten."_

"Oh, get knotted, brother dear," she said amiably, accepting his explanation but aware that there was more that he'd left unsaid. "I'm the epitome of charm. But whilst we're on the subject – this little dalliance of yours with the golden girl of Gryffindor wouldn't have anything to do with Verity Black's foul mood, would it?"

Marcus didn't grin, exactly, but he looked very pleased with himself. He and Verity had been rivals since they'd started Hogwarts – occasionally on friendly terms, mostly not. Some of their spats had actually passed into the realms of school mythology. Verity, of course, was one of Minerva McGonagall's closest friends – in much the same way that Constance herself was friends with Aurelius, minus the political opportunism. And Verity had been scowling his way through the Hogwarts corridors for quite a while now. Usually mild-mannered, he'd been very bad tempered and snappish. _Most ungallant, Constance thought. __Bad loser._

"Black's just used to acting as the fair lady's champion," her brother said. "I believe I may have put his nose out of joint."

She gasped in mock astonishment. "The fair lady has succumbed to your wicked ways? So soon?"

"No, no, not yet," Marcus admitted. "It's a slow dance, sister dear, and I am the heart and soul of chivalry – the courtly lover personified. And when my good friend Regal insults the lovely Minerva – as he's so unaccountably prone to doing – I smack him. Hard."

"And then you slip him five Galleons, in recompense?"

"Ten," her brother said, sadly. "He's a grasping little swine – but he has his uses."

Constance smiled, considering what she knew about the girl in question. "Sorry, but I don't think you've got a chance," she said, and was pleased to see the brief flash of outrage in Marcus' eyes. "Not with McGonagall."

"She'll come to her senses in time," her brother said, masking his irritation with a haughty sneer. "They always do."

"Prepared to wait three years, are you?" she teased. "McGonagall's practically a _nun."_

"Do I detect a trace of scorn?" Marcus asked, smiling thinly. "Surely, my dear sweet sister, _your virtue is just as unassailable? But nonetheless, pure as Minerva undoubtedly is – when she cracks – and she will, for she must – she'll do so in a very tender, heartwarming fashion."_

"That's so sweet," Constance said dryly. She hadn't missed her brother snipe at her supposed purity – and when combined with the amusement with which he'd mentioned inviting Riddle – she wondered just how much Marcus actually knew. "I believe you're going sentimental."

"Hardly," he retorted. "I'm perfectly in control of my actions. Minerva is a challenge – intellectually and physically – she requires a lot of energy expenditure on my part – but that is _all she is."_

"A challenge?"

"I never _could say no to a challenge," Marcus said with a shrug. "And in my experience, all problems can be solved – with a little time and consideration."_

"If you say so," Constance murmured, aware that she'd pricked his pride and would have no peace unless she backed down.

"_I'm in no danger of getting out of my depth," her brother continued, and although he was smiling at her, the message was unmistakable. __He knew. _

Constance's stomach clenched tightly in shock – _has Tom told him? – then she forced herself to relax, despite the mingled and decidedly unpleasant emotions that she was feeling. She was embarrassed, to say the least, but there was a horrible sinking feeling as it occurred to her that she and Minerva may have more in common than she'd thought. __After all, she thought, __it's not as if Tom has anything to lose by making this public. She, on the other hand –_

Aurelius _certainly wouldn't like it if he found out. Which she'd known all along, of course, but still._

"That's good to know," Constance said, keeping her voice calm and unshaken. After all – she and Tom hadn't gone far enough to cause a catastrophe. A little difficulty, perhaps, some embarrassment – but Marcus wasn't likely to go out of his way to cause trouble for her. After all, he was the Malfoy heir and it was his responsibility to maintain the family's reputation – which meant that he was probably going to put a stop to what she and Tom were doing. 

"Wouldn't want your reputation damaging," she said resignedly. _Or mine._

"Not at all," Marcus replied. "But like I said – Riddle's coming for Christmas. So _my reputation's perfectly safe."_

Just enough emphasis on the possessive pronoun there to let her know that he was prepared to speak to her about this, now, as plainly as was possible for a Malfoy.

"I'm not sure I know what you're talking about," she said, lying through her teeth. She knew he'd see that as an opening, an invitation to get it over with quickly. So she could take stock of the damage.

"There's not much that can escape the watchful eye of a concerned elder brother," he said quietly. "Such as myself."

_So much for my chances at secret keeper of the year, Constance thought bitterly, the questions she'd been planning to ask her brother about Tom suddenly decreasing in significance. They'd have to wait until this was resolved. "I haven't done anything wrong," she said. __Technically. "You know I wouldn't do anything to ruin –"_

 "A future alliance with the Snapes?" her brother ended for her, smiling at her discomfort. "Nevertheless, you might want to reassure them – or rather, Aurelius – of that fact." 

So casually uttered, but so immense in its implications. It was fascinating, despite her mortification, to see how quickly her furtive games with Tom had become part of a larger chain of events – although she'd had to have been exceptionally naïve to assume that they wouldn't, she'd just thought that they'd have had more time. And she didn't think that Tom would've told Marcus – why, she couldn't say, except that he was a very private person – which could only mean that they'd been indiscreet. And so Marcus knew – and he'd just implied that Aurelius knew. So she had to reassure him otherwise. _And how on earth am I supposed to do that, she wondered, __Aurelius being, well, the way he is? He wasn't exactly approachable, not in __that way – but she couldn't just pounce on him, for heaven's sake – although, remembering the timidity with which Aurelius had once kissed her, she'd probably have to._

"You don't have to worry about that," Marcus said, following her thoughts from her expression. "Aurelius will undoubtedly come to you." 

She raised an eyebrow. "How do you know?"

Her brother smiled, a male Sphinx. "Events have been set in motion to ensure such an outcome," he said, unhelpfully. 

"He's going to Summerisle for the holidays, isn't he?" 

"But the Snapes have been invited to the Christmas party," her brother informed her. "As always. So be _nice to him, sister. It could work out to your advantage, after all."_

_Your advantage. Not __our advantage. Such a little thing, but the difference it made was grave. _

"I'm always nice to Aurelius," she replied, almost absently, her mind racing ahead, following several possibilities. It would be to her family's advantage if she could maintain the link with Aurelius, of course – but it would also be to her own _personal advantage if she could somehow convince Aurelius that he had no further grounds for suspicion. Especially if she wasn't prepared to give up Tom – which she wasn't, she realized, with a sudden surge of feeling that she'd have to analyse later. Because she __would eventually marry Aurelius. And if he suspected her of any possible compromise, he had the right – all aristocratic families did – to invoke Bridal Law. To feed her Veritaserum the night before her wedding. To ask her certain questions that would determine whether she was a virgin, and, if not, whether __he'd been the one to take her first. It was, she thought, unbelievably demeaning. __To both of us. But the Law could only be invoked if there was reasonable grounds for doubt – and she really didn't think Aurelius would do that to her – but better by far to keep him ignorant and happy. And although it wouldn't take much, because he'd never seemed especially interested in sex, if she got it over with once and for all it __could clear the way for Tom._

 And _that was definitely what Constance considered an interesting option. For more reasons than just the obvious. He was important – she knew it. She didn't know why, or how, and her uncle's subtle hints during Charms had told Constance that it would take more than guesswork to figure it out – but she would not relinquish her alliance, if that was truly what it was, with Tom – because whatever it was that he and Marcus and her uncle were up to, she wanted that too. She didn't consider her virginity a sacred, precious thing – she was a Slytherin, after all – and if she had to coax Aurelius into taking it, so be it. Aurelius wasn't Tom – but he certainly wasn't without his own form of attractiveness. __I was born in the wrong century, she thought ruefully, as she remembered a time when witches could pursue very pleasurable paths to power, without the fear of male retribution._

"Ambitious little girl, aren't you?" her brother said, and she wished _she could read __him half as well as he could read her._

"It runs in the family," she replied. "Along with various other things."

It wasn't just Marcus who could come out with meaningful, significant and portentously double-edged statements, after all. She'd wondered whether Professor de la Tour's absence that Charms lesson had been entirely due to chance – had suspected that her uncle might have had something to do with it. Especially after he'd taken the opportunity to drop certain hints in her direction. Especially as Tom Riddle – someone whom she knew full well would _never_ allow himself to get caught paying less than full attention to a lesson – had given her uncle the opportunity to give Constance a clue to just why she found it so completely impossible to comprehend the mysterious Something that was – she was sure of it! – staring her most insolently in the face.

As she'd expected, her brother didn't display any surprise. Instead, he smiled. "You must be referring to our blonde good looks, our scintillating wit, devastating charm – oh, and incredibly attractive bank accounts?"

"Not quite," Constance said, "although they are decided advantages to being a Malfoy – and you know perfectly well what I'm referring to."

She looked directly at him as she spoke, challenging him to lay it out on the table for her. It was, she felt, past time. It made sense, all of it, if there was indeed some variant of the Fidelius Charm preventing her from seeing the truth. _The Zalaras Riddle_, she thought, remembering Tom's cryptic remarks at the Halloween feast as she waited for Marcus to speak. _It's in  your blood_. Fidelius Familia – the Charm she'd looked up in the Restricted Section, using a note from Professor Cale for the ostensible purpose of studying certain Indian Chants – after her uncle had indirectly nudged her in that direction. Knowledge, locked into a family, not just a person, ran through the bloodline. Lay dormant until the designated Secret Keeper for that generation of the family chose to unlock it.

It was done with blood, of course. True magic, at its purest, was always done that way.

"I expect," her brother said quietly, an unusual note in his voice, "I know far better than you what it is that you refer to."

"Then enlighten me, do," Constance replied instantly, feeling a sudden, heady surge of exhilaration rush through her veins as she wondered whether her brother or her uncle was the Secret Keeper. _Be calm. This is family business_.

There was little point in her trying to bypass the charm alone. She'd come to that conclusion a while ago. She'd been granted knowledge by virtue of her blood, she could _feel_ it, this knowledge that there was some truth that she should know. Had she not been a Malfoy, even this would have been hidden from her. She had to prove herself worthy, though, because this was important. She knew.

"It is in our blood," Marcus said, confirming what she already knew. "The charm."

Constance wasn't sure whether it was terrible joy, or pride she could see in his face then – or even fear – but she felt herself taking a deep breath, holding it, caught by the shivering electric spark that seemed to pass through her as her brother spoke. His voice barely a whisper, though they were alone by the lake and there was no one else to hear.

"For centuries." He didn't take his eyes from hers. Eyes that were very like her own, though grey. "His family and ours, bound together. It goes deep, Constance, very deep."

"But why?" Her voice was as soft as his. "_Why_?"

Marcus smiled at that, almost indulgently. "Blood will tell," he said, repeating the family motto that had taken on entirely new dimensions, "and I cannot bleed you here, now, by the school lake, sister dear."

Which was completely, undeniably true, of course.

"Christmas," was what she said then, seeing what she should have guessed all along. "He will be there, too."

Her brother didn't need to ask to whom she referred. "There will be blood. Lots of it." 

Marcus didn't add – didn't need to – that it would hurt. Blood magic was pure, because pain was one of the greatest enhancers of magic. Everybody knew that. Everybody from the old families, anyway. She raised her chin, and ignored the tiny voice in the back of her mind, the voice of fleeting caution telling her that she was stepping into something unknown, something big, something irrevocable. _This is what you were born for. Be worthy. Of our blood_.

"Deep magic," she said then, vaguely surprised at herself, "is the truest, purest kind of magic. Old magic isn't black or white, Marcus. It's red."

And she was gratified to see a flicker of pride in her brother's eyes.

*

Since his cousin's unexpected admission of uncertainty – and more – regarding his future bride, Quintus had heard no more on the subject. He hadn't really expected Aurelius to pour out his heart, but, nevertheless, he _had_ been keeping a discreetly watchful eye on the girl and boy in question. As best he could, considering that neither of them were in his House, and he taught them only in Potions. And he was pleased to see that although Aurelius had claimed that there did seem to be some attraction, Quintus Snape, personally, couldn't see any signs of it. He wondered whether his cousin had been a trifle – paranoid.

_Or perhaps I'm just not as perceptive as I used to be_, he thought half-ruefully, as he watched his cousin's supposed rival attempt to slip several squashed spider legs down the robes of the unsuspecting Ravenclaw girl he'd been partnered with. _Not entirely unsuspecting_, Quintus amended, as the dark haired girl shot Richard Marlowe a filthy look and mouthed something incredibly rude. _Such a foul mouth in one so young,_ the Potions master thought. Not that he was going to take points for that, not from his own house. He was just grateful she hadn't spoken out loud. House Ravenclaw was falling behind in points as it was.

Judging by the expression of pain on the brown haired Slytherin's face, Quintus guessed that Susanna Lessop's response hadn't simply been verbal. It rather looked as though Richard Marlowe had been kicked in a particularly sensitive region, from under the table. And it didn't look as though he was pleased about it, either.

"As delightful as Miss Lessop's neck undoubtedly is," Quintus said calmly, suppressing a sympathetic wince on behalf of the Slytherin, who had forgone subtlety for attempted throttling, "I would rather you didn't maul it during lessons, Mr. Marlowe. Ten points will be taken from Slytherin."

And promptly given back, he noted wistfully, watching as Aurelius' eyes narrowed slightly. His cousin's back had straightened, and Quintus just _knew_ the Slytherin was going to pounce upon any chance, however small, to regain those points. _So House pride's stronger than romantic rivalry, Aurelius?_ He couldn't say he was surprised. After all, he was still firmly attached to Ravenclaw.

It was the same in the adult world, house pride, even after you'd theoretically left school affiliations behind once leaving Hogwarts. And although Quintus might not have actually left Hogwarts at all, he knew his family customs – the traditions of all upper class British wizarding families. House loyalties stayed with you for the rest of your life. Nobody did more to forge these loyalties than the supposedly impartial teachers, either. Quintus thought of himself as basically fair – admittedly, a little more lenient towards his house, and maybe Aurelius', than was strictly necessary – but he knew perfectly well that the majority of the other teachers didn't share such moderation. Especially when house rivalry took on a more – personal nature. As it had done, very publicly, only the Sunday before.

*

"Well met by moonlight, Professor Snape."

He had not needed to turn around, and a slight quickening of the footsteps behind him had rendered such movement unnecessary as her hand touched his sleeve – lightly – and her pale face looked up at him from beneath the confines of a dark hood.  Her voice had given her away – low, almost unaccented, slightly husky. Distinctive.

"Ill met, I believe," he'd corrected her absently, glancing behind her almost on reflex to see if the other was there.

She'd laughed at that, and he realized that he might have sounded rude. "Are you being terribly unsubtle, Quintus? Shall I go away?"

"No, no," he said hastily. Although, as he was to reflect later, things might have been simpler if he'd just said yes. But, as he'd looked at the amusement in her face, he'd realized that only was she not offended, she probably knew the quotation anyway.

"Playing Professor, then," Elspeth Haven had said then, and there was a distinct trace of mockery in her voice as she continued. "The boy teacher. Ought I to have called you proud Titania instead, sir?"

"I'd rather you didn't," he'd said with feeling. _He'd have had a field day with that one._ "Not my cup of tea at all."

She laughed again, and he'd thought that he could detect the scent of alcohol – wine, probably white – on her breath. It's only half seven, he thought briefly, before she spoke again. "Octavius _will_ be disappointed," she said. "He had such high hopes…"

"I'd noticed."

She raised an eyebrow. 

He hadn't meant to sound quite so terse, and regretted his clumsiness. They had that effect on him, though, the pair of them. So he'd tried to change the subject. "You're walking to Hogsmeade?"

"As are you, I presume?"

"Christopher's already there," Quintus said, almost apologetically. "He's waiting for me." He'd hesitated momentarily, then, as though making amends for his curtness, "Would you like to join us?"

"Your friend will be with Matthew Seraphim, will he not?" she said neutrally.

"I think so," Quintus replied. For whatever reason, Christopher and the head of Gryffindor had been almost inseparable for the past few weeks. He couldn't see the attraction, himself, but then Christopher, like Seraphim, was Muggle-born. These things mattered. "In which case," he'd added, suddenly feeling quite reckless, "you should _definitely_ join us."

"Shall I save you from the great Chudley Cannons debate, then?" she asked. "Not to imply that Matthew Seraphim has only one topic of conversation, not at all." 

"Well, whilst the children chatter…" Quintus had said, smiling, wondering where he'd heard that before.

"The _adults_ can converse," the Divination teacher ended. Octavius Malfoy's words from the pub only a few weeks earlier.  Of course.

"And if truth be told, I loathe, despise and detest Quidditch. With a vengeance."

"Entirely understandable," she'd murmured, placing her hand on his sleeve again, manoeuvring him onwards, to where the lights of Hogsmeade beckoned in the distance. Lights that had become considerably dimmer since the outset of the Muggle war, despite the fact that Lumos Inc Fireflies were supposed to be invisible to people without magical blood. It was necessary to make some concessions, even if it was just for form's sake. "Boys fiddling with their big broomsticks, and all that innuendo whizzing about…"

"You just can't help yourself, can you?" he said, mostly to distract himself from the presence of her hand. She'd kissed his cheek when she'd thanked him, after Halloween. "Is it a Slytherin thing?"

"Probably," she said, flashing a brief grin. "We do seem to have rather dirty minds."

"Yes, well." He'd been mildly uncomfortable at that. "You're all bloody good at it," he added.

"Don't worry," she replied swiftly, ignoring the obvious response to that one and smirking as she did so. "I will leave your mind as innocent as I found it, Professor. You _do_ have to set a good example to your cousin, after all."

Ignoring the fact that his cousin could probably do with a lot less innocence – at least, in that area – Quintus had sighed. "True," he said. "It's a burden, but I can cope."

"It is what you're here for, after all," she'd continued blandly.

He'd looked at her sharply, then controlled himself. It was fairly obvious – the Snape family most certainly did _not_ need the small salary that he earned as a teacher, and he could have quite simply joined his family business after leaving school. If he hadn't been ordered by Valerius to ensure his cousin learned what was necessary, of course. Elspeth Haven came from a good family, and, although he didn't know her very well, he felt sure that she possessed the inevitable Slytherin cunning. And he knew damn well that Octavius did. The Defence against the Dark Arts teacher was undoubtedly fulfilling a similar role at Hogwarts for the benefit of his own family. After all, the Malfoy-Snape union depended upon how well he and Octavius succeeded with their respective relatives. It was a ritual performed by all the important families, irrespective of house. Wasn't Lydia Grey, the head of Ravenclaw, keeping an eye on various distant relatives herself?

Nevertheless.

"I'm here to teach," Quintus had murmured quietly. It was necessary to maintain _some_ small façade, after all. Especially when talking to someone closely linked to a Malfoy. "To expand young minds. Spread my hard-earned knowledge. Same as yourself, surely."

"Young minds are always in need of expanding," she'd agreed, her green eyes sparkling maliciously. "But you're not much older yourself, are you?"

He glanced at her sideways. "Not by far," he admitted. "Does age bring more experience?" he asked, innocently, and had been pleased to see her mouth crook into a half-smile as she acknowledged – reluctantly – his barb.

 "Age brings all _kinds_ of experience," Elspeth had said, with the kind of smile that left him in no doubt as to which kind she was referring to. And no doubt that she'd be quite happy to expand his mind personally. Which was something he wasn't averse to, as such, but still. He wanted to know the rules of her game before he committed himself.

"I supposed I shall have to wait and see," he'd hedged, skilfully negotiating a large puddle that was barely visible on the darkened road. "Only time will tell."

"Exactly," she replied, accepting what he had left unsaid with apparent satisfaction. 

He'd delayed, but not refused. And wondered what he would do when the time came to make a choice.

"About _time_," Christopher – who was obviously already well on the way to complete inebriation – exclaimed plaintively as the Potions master and the Divination teacher entered the pub. "You're already three drinks behind!"

"Only three?" Quintus said, as he sat down. He was impressed. "You're outdoing yourself, Christopher. There was a time when you'd have been hopelessly paralytic after two."

"He's had three small glasses of wine," Matthew Seraphim interjected, nodding coolly at Elspeth as she slid into the remaining empty seat. "All of them extremely watered down, I might add. So he's not doing _that_ well."

"I am a lightweight," the Chantwork teacher admitted gleefully. "But I_ like _it."

"It's fair enough," Quintus said. "Means I don't have to include you in the next round. And, speaking of which, would you like a drink?" 

Elspeth, to whom the question had been addressed, nodded and specified a very expensive and rare brand of white wine that, apparently, Gilly Grey held in stock purely for her.

"Oh, this wonderful world of purchase power," the head of Gryffindor muttered, very quietly.

The Divination teacher smiled, too sweetly. "And if you could order for Octavius as well," she said to Quintus, still smiling. "He'll be joining me shortly."

"Certainly," Quintus said. It wasn't as if he was strapped for cash. Valerius gave him a _very_ generous allowance. 

"What?"

"Vodka – Siberian Sizzle," Elspeth said, glancing at Matthew Seraphim. Quintus, following her gaze, saw the Flight instructor's eyes narrow. "I personally find the stuff disgusting," she continued, her voice almost entirely free from inflexion, "which leads me to doubt Octavius' standards somewhat – but perhaps it's an acquired taste."

"Would that be straight?" Quintus asked, wondering what subliminal messages he was missing here.

"Oh, I expect so," Matthew had cut in, trying and failing to disguise a certain vicious sting in his tone. "He doesn't strike me as the kind of man to sully pure vodka, after all."

 "Oh yes," the Divination teacher replied, turning from Seraphim to Quintus with a rather nasty smile. "Straight. If you don't mind?"

"Not at all," the Potions master had said, somewhat disconcerted by what he thought he'd understood from this little exchange. Octavius and – _Seraphim_? Although potentially amusing, it had been  an uncomfortable reminder that Octavius Malfoy appeared to have set his sights on him. Is the man planning on going through all the Hogwarts staff?_ Seraphim. _There really was no accounting for taste._ And that goes for both of them_. He was pleased to see that he wasn't alone in his discovery – although befuddled by alcohol, Christopher, too, had noticed the interplay and was frowning thoughtfully at a splash of liquid on the table. 

With the scene thus set, then, he'd headed off to the bar. But he'd been in no danger of missing the main action that night. Octavius, the key player, had already arrived by the time Quintus returned, and the play, written so carefully by the two Slytherins, could proceed.

Christopher, left alone to mediate between the two Slytherins and the Gryffindor, hadn't seemed to be doing a particularly good job. Despite his highly colourful, and undoubtedly highly fictitious account of how Henry Jones Binns claimed to have discovered the Holy Grail – he _does_ tend to run on at times, Quintus thought tolerantly – Christopher couldn't prevent Matthew Seraphim from glaring murderously at the ice-blond Slytherin man. Nor could he have prevented his friend from seeing Octavius Malfoy return a slow smile that was more a twisting of the lips. It was the undisguised contempt in the blond man's eyes that had the greatest effect upon the head of Gryffindor, however. His knuckles had turned white as he'd gripped his glass, his lips half parted and eyes narrowed in undisguised hatred.

"Drinks," Quintus said lightly, in an attempt to diffuse what had looked in danger of becoming a rather explosive situation. "Here."

Elspeth thanked him prettily, and had allowed her fingers to touch his as she took her glass from him, Octavius nodded without taking his eyes off the Flight instructor. And Matthew Seraphim matched him, glare for glare.

"Read any good books lately?" Christopher addressed Quintus directly, flippantly, obviously despairing of subtly defusing the tense atmosphere. His speech wasn't quite as slurred as it had been a few moments earlier – obviously the close proximity of the DADA teacher hadn't just had an effect upon Seraphim.

"No more so than usual," Quintus had replied, wondering just what was going on. "Yourself?"

"Only a few," Christopher said lightly, as Elspeth Haven murmured something inaudible into Octavius' ear. "The trouble with teaching is that it takes up so much _time_."

"True," the Potions master said, feigning weariness and keeping a watchful eye on the other occupants of the table. Octavius had slipped a proprietary arm around his partner, who didn't look at all displeased as she smiled at Quintus. "The children just don't know what we're giving up for their sakes, do they?"

"If you're not up to the job," Octavius said, addressing the table apparently at random, "you could always resign. Find something more suited to your – talents." 

 It wasn't what he said, as such, but the way he'd said it.

"I'm quite happy where I am," Quintus replied, knowing perfectly well that Octavius hadn't been speaking to him. "Besides, young minds are always in need of expanding."

The Divination teacher buried her smile in her glass.

"He didn't mean you," Matthew Seraphim said then, speaking for the first time since the blond man had joined them. His eyes were accusing. "Did you?"

Octavius Malfoy's expression could only have been described as unpleasant. "Glad you decided to join the conversation," he said, with mock sincerity. "And of course, I had no doubts that _Quintus_ would be able to fulfil his duty towards the witches and wizards of the future."

Just enough emphasis for Quintus to realize another thing. He'd known it before, of course, and it had been an issue before – but not recently. Not that he knew of, anyway, and not since he and Christopher had been pupils themselves. Now, perhaps, it would be slightly more awkward. To say the least.

"Quintus being pure-blooded, of course," Seraphim said, his voice dangerously low. "That is what you meant, isn't it?"

Christopher, although drunk, had gone very still. Quintus cursed himself for not having foreseen such an occurrence earlier. With a Malfoy involved, for pity's sake, it really had been exceptionally shortsighted of him.

"I said nothing of the kind," Octavius had said then. "But if you really want to make this a matter of blood purity –"

"You didn't need to say it. And everything _is _about that, with you." Seraphim's voice dripped venom, almost rivalling the DADA teacher's.

Although Quintus had known that Christopher accepted his limited status as a Muggle-born – at least, theoretically – and had faced various slights due to this before – he also knew that with Octavius Malfoy and Matthew Seraphim involved, this had always been likely to get nasty. _Personal_. And although he'd made it a rule not to get overly involved in regards to this kind of thing – after all, he had his family to think of and he knew how Valerius would react were he to suddenly start championing equal rights – he knew that Christopher, more sensitive than was immediately obvious, would not take _this_ particularly well. There was tradition, and Quintus accepted that, and then there was simple abuse. 

"Oh, not everything, surely," Elspeth said, her voice laced with honey. It was almost too perfect - but the predatory glint in her green eyes, in stark contrast to her tone, reminded Quintus she, too, was a Slytherin. And, although he was in no danger of forgetting _this_, on very good terms with at least one Malfoy. He'd simply not seen this side to her before. "Why, I've heard Octavius has been most – open-minded – about such things  in the past." 

The head of Gryffindor favoured her with a scornful glance. "I'm sure you have," he'd said, coldly. 

"Have you heard otherwise?" she asked, innocently. And leaned back slightly, against Octavius, making her position quite clear. In more ways than one. "Do tell."

_It was going to get a lot more awkward_, the Potions master had thought then. It wasn't Seraphim he was bothered about, though. The Gryffindor could take care of himself, and obviously wasn't going to let himself be intimidated by Octavius Malfoy. Quite the opposite, in fact.

"Oh, I'm quite sure you've heard everything," Seraphim said viciously. "You're as bad as each other."

"Just two dedicated teachers, trying to do our best for our pupils," Octavius said, not even bothering to conceal his smirk. "Just trying to be sure the rest of the staff shares our dedication."

"After all, it's the children who'll suffer," Elspeth said piously. "If your heart's not in it, better to find yourself a more suitable job."

"Maybe you could take up professional Quidditch?" Octavius suggested, with an air of exaggerated solicitude.

"Oh?" Seraphim asked, controlling his evident fury. Quintus was actually impressed – the head of Gryffindor was being surprisingly restrained. For the moment. "And which of the three teams that _don't _ban _mudbloods _would you recommend?" He'd practically spat the insult at them – getting there first, Quintus had thought. It wasn't a bad tactic, although it certainly opened the way for more to follow.

"Please don't use that type of language," Octavius said, with aristocratic languor. "There's a lady present."

"The mudblood is sorry," Seraphim said, his attitude distinctly lacking in contrition. "The mudblood didn't notice. The mudblood hopes she didn't feel uncomfortable."

"Don't be cross with us," Elspeth said wide-eyed, deliberately ignoring the insult. "Octavius is simply trying to be _helpful._ He just wants to make life easier for you, that's all."

"We should all play to our strengths," the blond man – Constance's uncle – said. "If flying's what makes you feel more like a _real_ wizard, then go for it."

"I'm touched," Seraphim sneered. "I didn't think you cared."

"But _there's_ the rub," Elspeth Haven said then, with more than just a hint of malice as she ran her hand along Octavius' arm. It was, Quintus had thought, almost as though she was staking her claim. And, if what he thought he'd learned earlier was correct, she very probably had been. "You _did_."

At that, the other man had turned a remarkable shade of pale. For a split second, Quintus, unsure of what he was looking for, had seen a variety of unreadable emotions flit across the Gryffindor's face. Then –

"You _bastard_."

It had been said, quite simply, quite calmly, as if stating a well-known fact. It was as if Seraphim's anger had suddenly drained out of him.

"My father would have had your heart ripped out if he'd heard that," Octavius replied, his voice the more deadly for its complete lack of anger. Calm. Matter of fact. "My brother and I might yet have you flayed. So just be grateful I'm feeling _open-minded_."

The head of Gryffindor just looked at him, and it was almost worse than it had been when he'd looked at Octavius with hatred, Quintus thought, because there was _nothing_ in Seraphim's eyes. 

"I'm getting another drink," Christopher said suddenly. "Are you coming, Quintus?"

The others had barely noticed the Chantwork teacher stand, albeit somewhat uncertainly, caught up as they were in the intensely private drama unfolding. Quintus, however, had shaken his head, with a momentary pang of guilt as his friend shuffled over to the bar. The focus, however, wasn't _on_ Christopher. It wasn't even about blood purity, as such. This was about Seraphim and Octavius and Elspeth. And Quintus had had to stay, because he'd wanted to know just what the two Slytherins wanted with _him_, and what they were capable of doing with him once they'd finished their game. Seraphim, then, there, was the end product, a warning to him. _And maybe a warning to Christopher, too_, he'd thought suddenly. A warning – to stay away from Seraphim? For what reason? He examined the obvious, and rejected it outright. Not that. These things were never as straightforward as they seemed.

"Cat got your tongue, little bird?" Octavius asked then, very, very quietly. His grey eyes were burning, alive. And so full of amusement. 

"_Shut up_."

The softly spoken words hadn't seemed to be coming from Matthew Seraphim. He'd been barely moving his lips. And, Quintus noted, there was still no discernable trace of emotion in his face whatsoever. There was just – nothing. It hadn't even sounded like his voice.

"Can't you fly, little bird?" The amusement in the blond man's eyes reached his voice. Elspeth had glanced up at him, then and Quintus wondered whether she'd intended things to get quite this far. He could only guess at the significance of what Octavius had said – no doubt Elspeth knew perfectly well. 

"I said _shut the fuck up_," Matthew Seraphim repeated, and this time he was anything but quiet. His voice carried as he half-stood, and quite a few people in the pub fell silent as they turned to watch. Elspeth slipped free of Octavius' arm, distancing herself slightly. In anticipation.

_Thank Merlin there aren't any students_, Quintus thought, glancing around uncomfortably. Christopher, at the bar, was steadfastly refusing to look, and for that he was grateful. His friend hated confrontations. Especially this kind.

"It would probably be best –" Quintus had begun, then stopped. Aware that a very public scene was only seconds away, aware that he had _no_ idea how to break this up. 

Nobody had been listening to him, anyway.

Octavius Malfoy smiled, arrogant and lethal. "_You sang a sweeter song last time, little bird_," he said, and although only three others heard, the entire room saw Matthew Seraphim kick back his chair and launch himself at the blond man, the table rocking wildly, ignored. The entire room saw Seraphim's hands reach and find Octavius' throat, saw Octavius' face twist into its own brand of fury, saw the blond man's chair topple backwards, spilling the two men onto the floor. Heard, most shockingly of all, Octavius' laughter as he broke Seraphim's grip with ease. Rich and vibrant and, appallingly, _amused_.

The silence that had reigned for a brief moment erupted into chaos. As Quintus and several others attempted to drag the two men apart, Gilly Grey, transformed into a scarily efficient peacekeeper by anything that disrupted the smooth running of her pub, snapped out a few words in a language that the Potions master didn't understand. _Trollish_, he'd presumed whilst clutching rather feebly at Seraphim's flailing arms, and he was more than grateful to see two sour looking security trolls emerge from behind the bar – heading their way. The crowd of people gathered around to watch Octavius and Seraphim make spectacles of themselves had dispersed quickly once the trolls had been sighted – no-one wanted to get on the wrong side of a _troll_, after all – and Quintus, too, stepped back.

Trolls, even when in what would pass for a calm mood, still weren't particularly gentle – and these particular trolls were decidedly less than calm. Trolls did not like their drinking time interrupted, especially not by the antics of humans, and consequently Octavius Malfoy and Matthew Seraphim had received quite a few blows during the process of their separation. One troll fist caught the DADA teacher square on the jaw, but to his credit, Octavius Malfoy hardly responded. Although the look he shot at the troll in question wasn't exactly friendly, not by a long shot. But Seraphim hadn't come off any better, Quintus noted, after this, the Flight instructor would have several bruises that he couldn't lay at Malfoy's door.

"_Enough_," Gilly Grey had said then, addressing the entire pub. Her usual smile replaced with an angry scowl, she'd been watching it all from the bar. "This is a reputable Hogsmeade establishment, not a Knockturn Alley dive. If you want to fight, go elsewhere."

The trolls looked at her expectantly. 

"Escort these gentlemen outside," she'd continued, "_without_ any further scrapping. And I will have no further occurrences of this, do you understand?"

"Perfectly," Seraphim had said, through a bloody lip. Disentangling himself from the troll's grasp – albeit with some difficulty – he stalked out without a backwards glance. As the door slammed behind him, Christopher, who'd been watching with what was, for him, an entirely unreadable expression, had looked down at his shoes.

Octavius Malfoy smiled. He would be sporting a black eye in the morning, and there were already red marks where Seraphim had gripped his throat, but he'd still managed to stare down the troll who was restraining him.

"I do apologize for the inconvenience," he said, smoothly regaining his poise, "I can assure you it won't need to happen again."

_Once was quite enough to make your point, _Quintus thought. _Or points_, he'd amended, his eyes meeting Christopher's from across the room. His friend, though, hadn't smiled, and looked away. 

Gilly Grey nodded, but she didn't look particularly pleased. "Make sure it doesn't," was all she said, however.

As the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher made a remarkably dignified exit, Elspeth Haven had followed with only a fleeting goodbye smile at Quintus. The Potions master, alone, had gone to  join Christopher at the bar. 

"Are you alright?" he'd asked. It hadn't been pleasant for anybody – but Christopher was more likely to have taken offence. Octavius Malfoy had undoubtedly known that when he'd started the argument. He wasn't the type to miss an opportunity, after all. Quintus _thought_ he'd understood most of what had just happened – but it didn't take a genius to work out that there had definitely been undercurrents that he'd missed.

The Chantwork teacher had smiled thinly, by then almost completely sober. "I'm better off than Matthew, at any rate," he said.

"He got a good few punches in himself," Quintus had replied, in what he'd hoped had been a reassuring manner. "They'll both have some nice bruises tomorrow."

"He thinks we're dirt," Christopher had said, abruptly, and he obviously hadn't been referring to Matthew Seraphim. "I knew he didn't like us. But I hadn't realized it was quite that bad. Perhaps I'm just stupid."

Quintus looked at his friend, concerned. "Octavius is … a trifle overzealous," he'd said. "To say the least. And," he added, although he wasn't certain, "I think what just went on had more to do with matters of a more – personal – nature."

Christopher laughed, bitterly. "You can't really _get_ more personal. Family's everything, isn't that what your kind's all about?"

_Your kind_. With those two little words, Quintus had realized that he was on dangerous ground. More so, in a way, than he'd felt whilst talking to the two ex-Slytherin teachers. This wasn't a game, or politics; this was about him and Christopher. And, although he personally couldn't care less whether Christopher's parents were Muggles – they could have been_ Veela _for all he cared – he knew that his friend would never be accepted into his world. His family's world – Valerius Snape would never acknowledge Christopher, nor would any of the leading wizarding families. And, when he thought about it, he'd realized that that was the way it _had_ to be. But he'd felt strangely guilty, then.

"Our kind," he'd said, quietly. "Ours."

"Matthew was right," Christopher continued, hardly listening. "All along, but I wasn't sure. I thought he was just jealous, really, but I was wrong."

"_Our_ kind," Quintus had repeated, more urgently. "Say it, Christopher."

His friend had just looked at him, almost blankly. "I'm going back to the castle," he'd said. "I'll see you later."

*

"Far be it from me to come across as a _git_," Richard said casually, "or to give you the impression that you're not welcome," he added, "but honestly – why do you bother getting the Hogwarts Express? Your little island paradise is all of _half an hour away_ from here!"

"You ask me this every term," Aurelius said, carefully folding a pair of black silk pyjamas and tucking them into his suitcase. "And every term the answer's the same: London. Shopping. _Knockturn Alley_. You just never listen, do you?"

"Far be it from me to come across as a heartless, insensitive cad," Richard replied, "but no. Either that, or I've just forgotten."

"And here I was, thinking that you hung upon my every word," Aurelius countered, his words weighted with sarcasm. 

"Oh, I do," the brown haired Slytherin responded. "I was just trying to play hard to get, that's all. Creating an aura of mystery, so to speak."

"How droll. Do it somewhere else, will you? I'm trying to pack_." Leaving things to the last minute really isn't advisable_, Aurelius thought, ruefully. The Slytherin common room was awash with students frantically searching for their lost socks – or worse. The ancient green sofa had been turned upside down many times that week, and Aurelius just didn't want to _know _what had been found down its back.

"And that's another thing I don't understand," Richard said miserably, looking at his own possessions with an air of complete dejection. "My suitcase looks like a bomb just went off in it."

"I feel your pain," Paul Tudor interrupted, looking over Richard's shoulder as he passed by with an armful of crumpled robes. "Oh wait, I don't. At least I let the house-elves _wash _my clothes from time to time."

"They use horrible washing powder," Richard said loftily. "My skin's very sensitive. And screw you, my clothes _have_ been washed!"

"By hand," Aurelius informed Paul. "In the lake. Still, whatever works for you, Marlowe."

"I'm wounded," Richard announced. "No, really. I am. Aren't my housewifely skills enough for you? I've tried so hard!"

"Yeah?" Aurelius said unfeelingly. "Obviously not hard enough – look, don't just squash all those trousers in like that, you need to fold them so they take up less room –"

"I've tried," Richard protested, eyeing his trousers dolefully. "But they seem to have developed sentience, and they just won't behave."

"That is the most _pathetic_ excuse I've heard for laziness in my life," Aurelius sighed. He took the pair of trousers from his friend, and began to fold them deftly. "And I've known Potter for six years, so that's really saying something."

"Oh, do the world a favour and drink poison," Richard retorted. "And do me a favour whilst you're at it – _don't_ look in those trouser pockets."

"Why not? Have you been growing cabbages in them, or something?"

"Not – quite," the brown haired boy said with a snigger. "Do mushrooms count as cabbages?"

"That is _disgusting_," Aurelius snapped, flinging the trousers across the room. "Fold them yourself."

"Oh, for pity's sake, it was a joke! You know, those things that end in a laugh? You might remember them from those seriously brilliant books in the library like _Carry On Laughing_, or _That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore: So What Happens Now_?"

"Oh, I'm _sorry_," Aurelius said scathingly. "But whilst you were reading those weighty tomes, I was obviously out reading trivial rubbish like _How To Slice And Dice A Man In Ten Seconds Flat_, or _Don't Look At Me Like That You Insufferable Git Or I'll Kill You_!" 

"You know, I can feel an awful lot of hostility coming from you today," Richard said thoughtfully. "Was it something I said?"

"You really are just a _simple creature_," Aurelius Snape sighed, exasperated beyond words.

"My God," Paul said softly. As both boys turned to him, he began to laugh. 

"What?" Aurelius said. "What's so funny?"

"You two," he said, still chuckling. "You're like an old married couple, or something. It's _pathetic_."

"But at the same time, quite amusing," came the sepulchral tones of the apparently non-slumbering Simon Harper, startling them all. "And very sweet."

"Oh, yes, I'm not denying the _saccharine_ nature of their love," Paul said swiftly. "But still, there's a definite hint of pathetic."

"I'd go along with that," replied Simon, without opening his eyes. He lay resplendent, tucked up in a green and silver checked duvet. And he hadn't done any packing whatsoever, Aurelius noted.

"Pathetic my arse," Richard replied. "I'll have you know that _I'm_ the saccharine one in this relationship. If you want pathetic, look at Aurelius. He's still having trouble accepting things. I'm sure you know how it is."

Paul Tudor nodded sympathetically, and, before Aurelius could find words to express his outrage, "Just give him time, Dicky my dear. Time's all he needs."

"You know, Paul, for once in your sorry life, I think you might be right," Richard said. "And if you ever call me Dicky again, I _will _slit your throat."

"Not if I slit it first," Aurelius growled. "And don't think I've forgotten you, _Dicky my dear_."

"Are you planning on embarking upon a killing spree _today_?" A quiet, low-pitched voice that nevertheless carried across the room. "Because I'd rather you waited until the end of term. I'll have to report you otherwise."

Aurelius eyed Tom Riddle suspiciously. _Mind your own business_, he thought, then rebuked himself. The half-blood hadn't done anything wrong. That he knew of. Yet. "Probably not today," he said coolly. "Don't worry."

"But if I wake up dead tomorrow," Richard said gleefully, "I want you to _get_ Aurelius for me, alright Riddle? Extract a brutal and bloody revenge. Cut his tongue out, for starters, then use your imagination."

"Make him eat his parents," Paul chipped in. "He's threatened me too, you know. I feel quite vulnerable now."

"Well," Riddle said, his face expressionless as he looked at Aurelius. "Aren't you the dangerous one?"

_What does he think he's playing at_? Aurelius wondered. He was _quite_ sure that the half-blood had to be aware of the delicate relationship that existed between himself and Constance, and equally sure that Riddle was trying to create his own – delicate relationship. Even more sure that Riddle _knew _he wasn't pleased about this situation. Even less pleased since Marcus had decided to invite the boy to Malfoy Manor for Christmas. _Is he deliberately trying to piss me off?_

"Don't worry," he repeated, controlling his rising irritation very carefully indeed.  There was no point in moving too swiftly towards a confrontation. He didn't have the full measure of Riddle yet, he knew that, and although Aurelius knew that he himself was not half bad at dueling – the half-blood was an unknown. It wouldn't do to be _too _cautious, however. "I'll let you know if you're in any danger."

"Thank heavens for small mercies," the half-blood said, and although Aurelius couldn't be entirely sure, he thought there was more amusement than mockery in Riddle's voice.  Constance's newfound friend was probably playing the same game. There would be no open conflict until one of them was certain of his advantage. But when _that_ would be, Aurelius didn't know.

*

"So which one is it?"

Without taking her eyes away from the mirror, Constance looked at reflection of the girl standing next to her. Admittedly, standing might perhaps have been an exaggeration – what Susanna Lessops was doing was more along the lines of _lounging_, sprawled against the bathroom wall. There was very little space in the girls' toilets on the Hogwarts Express, but the dark haired Ravenclaw seemed determined to take up as much as she possibly could. Her cosmetics bag – which was rather nice, Constance noted – took up at least two thirds of the little shelf above the sink.

"Excuse me?" Constance said coolly. She hardly knew the girl, apart from exchanging the odd comment during Divination lessons, and _didn't_ consider herself the type to befriend random Ravenclaws. Not without good reason, anyway, and Aurelius had never stopped grousing about this girl during his Quidditch days. His disgruntlement might have been amusing (for about a week) but still.

"Which one is it?" Susanna repeated, entirely indifferent to her lack of warmth.

"Which one is what?" Constance asked, running a comb through her hair. She'd left Aurelius and Richard to their own devices in their shared carriage, glancing through the window of the carriage her brother had been sharing with Tom and several others as she passed. Regal Rosier and Felix DuPre had been deep in conversation, whilst Tom had been almost completely absorbed in his diary. He'd looked up as she'd passed, and although he hadn't smiled he'd nodded slightly.  She hadn't seen Marcus at all. She wondered whether he was with Minerva McGonagall.

"Because it's not fair if you're doing both of them," the Ravenclaw continued blithely. "Unless you're planning on sharing. Otherwise, like I said, it's not fair."

_No. I have not been that indiscreet_. "At the risk of sounding ignorant, Lessops," Constance said, making her voice as frosty as possible and adopting what she hoped was an aloof expression, "I have no idea what you're talking about. Now, run along and read a book or something. So much holiday, so little study time, after all."

Susanna arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow. "Both of them, then? And digs at my house won't offend me, by the way, because we're above that kind of pettiness."

"Both of whom?" She wasn't particularly keen on hearing the answer. "And, for the record, your house is only above that kind of pettiness because you're all too boring to participate."

"I'm only asking because there's a lot riding on it." The dark haired girl looked remarkably unruffled at the insult as she extracted a packet of cigarettes from the depths of her pocket. "I would like to prove Potter wrong. Even more than I'd like to win the jackpot, actually. It's a matter of pride."

Constance sighed, aware that she'd _have_ to investigate this. "Firstly, what are you talking about? Secondly, what's Potter got to do with anything? And thirdly, what jackpot are you talking about?"

Susanna looked at her in mild surprise, before giggling. "You really don't know, do you?" 

"I don't know anything other than the fact you're talking shite," Constance said, beginning to lose her patience as the Ravenclaw lit her cigarette. "Although that explains why you keep your mouth shut in lessons – after all, you wouldn't want to lose any more points, would you – I _do_ wonder if you've confused me with someone else."

"Oh? Why would that be?"

"Because I don't know you, for starters, and I'm not in the habit of indulging in conversation with complete imbeciles," she replied. "Unless we're actually friends, and I'm suffering from selective amnesia. Either explain yourself, or go away."

"You've really hurt my feelings now," Susanna said. "But I forgive you. I must have you confused with another blonde Slytherin upon whose sexual habits the entire sixth year – and some of the sevenths too – are taking bets."

Constance turned away from the mirror. "_What_ did you say?"

Susanna, assured of her audience, smiled and breathed out smoke. "You heard. So which one is it?"

"What, exactly, does this – bet – consist of?"

"A girl can't stay friends with two boys for six years and not have something else going," the Ravenclaw said calmly. "It's against nature. So, I ask again – is it Snape or Marlowe?"

Constance was outraged. Relieved, because Susanna obviously didn't know anything about Tom, but still outraged. _They're taking bets on this? That's pathetic. _"Just how much is riding on this?" she asked, calmly. "And just how pitiful _are_ the other three houses?"

"Jackpot's standing at three hundred Galleons, so far," Susanna replied cheerfully. "It's quite a bit, I think.. Oh, and _your_ house is involved too. At first we were worried they'd be able to get inside information and clean up – but I have to say, you're very good at hiding it."

"My house? Who?" Constance made a mental note to painfully torture any Slytherin stupid enough to get involved in such an enterprise. _Paul and Simon – it has to be._

"Can't say, sorry." Susanna took a long, slow drag on her cigarette, then exhaled equally slowly. "Gambler's honour, that kind of thing. Wouldn't be fair. Are you going to tell me?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Constance said scathingly, and out of curiosity, "how much have _you_ put into this? And what exactly does this bet consist of?"

"Well," the dark haired girl said smugly, "I've put in about thirty Galleons. And there are five options – either you're screwing Aurelius, or Richard, or both – which would impress quite a few people, actually – _or_ you're a virgin, _or _you're actually sleeping with one of the Slytherin girls. Seeing as you are of the immoral and evil Snake house, we _were_ going to include incest, or inappropriate relations with either Professor Snape or Professor Cale – but we decided that that just might be too improper even for one of you hisslings."

Constance's sense of outrage hadn't diminished, but her sense of humour _was_ rapidly growing. She wondered just how many people had placed the correct bet – but she certainly _wasn't_ going to ask. Not that. "You're all wrong," she said, with an air of nonchalance. "If you really want to know, I'm sleeping with Professor Haven." 

"Very funny," Susanna said, unimpressed. "We've done our research into that one already – one member of the Malfoy family's enough, and that member isn't you."

"You've done research into her? For what purpose?" She was impressed, actually. _Never let it be said that the Ravenclaws' obsessive attentiveness to detail doesn't yield interesting results. What else do they know?_

"We have complete dossiers on _all _the teachers," the Ravenclaw said casually. "Scandalous stuff, some of it. You wouldn't think Bloom and Boot had it in them, really you wouldn't. But anyway, answer the blasted question, I'm all agog."

"Before I answer," Constance said, knowing perfectly well that she wouldn't and that only one of the possibilities was applicable to her – and even that wouldn't be before long, she hoped – "tell me what Potter's betting."

"Since you ask so politely, and I suppose it does concern you, he's betting on both of them. At the same time, of course. There's _nothing_ he won't put past you three."

"Well, he's decidedly wrong," Constance said sternly, running the brush through her hair again. "Although such rumours could hardly hurt my reputation, I suppose. Maybe you could tell him that we're looking for a fourth? Oh wait, no. Even Slytherins have standards, I'm afraid."

"Hang on to those standards," the dark haired girl said. "Even though you're not Potter's type, I can assure you that he wouldn't be up to the challenge."

"Personal experience?" Constance asked, intrigued. Other people's sex lives _were_ rather interesting.

"Unfortunately," Susanna replied. "A moment of weakness that lasted two weeks."

"Was he, well…how can I put this in a way that isn't horribly crass?" Constance asked, thinking about the humiliation potential that her friends could derive from this. _Potter will be taught a lesson, oh yes._

"Any good?" 

"That's the one."

"I'm surprised I lasted two weeks, put it that way," the Ravenclaw said wearily. "Two minutes was more than enough, and that's pretty much what I got."

"_Oh_," Constance said. "Can I make this public?"

"Information given to a Malfoy is generally expected to be made public," Susanna said. "You're quite naïve, aren't you?"

"I was being polite," Constance corrected her. "You should be flattered, because I normally don't bother."

"Oh, I'm flattered, believe me. Anyway, am I correct in assuming that you're a virgin then?"

"That's a very personal question," Constance said, "and one I'm not intending to answer, because it could incriminate quite a lot of people. I do have other people's reputations to protect, after all."

"I understand. Pringle and Groan _would _have a hell of a time getting new jobs at their age. Very considerate of you."

"The thought sickens me," the blonde girl said, somewhat revolted. "Although it is quite amusing."

"In a degenerate sense, naturally," Susanna replied. "I take it I'm not going to get anything of worth out of you, then?"

"You assume correctly," Constance said. "And "hisslings" was quite good too. I like it."

"Thought of it myself. I think it's quite sweet. By the way – "

"What?" Constance asked, as the other girl broke off.

Susanna looked vaguely uncomfortable for a moment. "Well," she began, "if you're not doing either of them – can I have one?" 

Constance blinked. "Dare I ask to what end?"

"I would have thought that would have been self-evident," the other girl replied. "I don't mind which one, I just wanted to get your consent."

"You don't need my consent, for pity's sake," Constance said, almost laughing at the absurdity. "I don't _own_ them." _And it would certainly do Aurelius good_. Not for the first time, she found herself wishing she'd been born male. They had it remarkably easy. Nobody would raise an eyebrow if Aurelius and some other girl had an arrangement similar to the one she herself had with Tom. It simply wouldn't matter – in fact, it was normal. It was, in fact, quite surprising that Aurelius hadn't set himself up already. And that, too, was something she'd have to think about. With Christmas coming so soon, and all that it entailed. Without wanting to, she winced. _There will be blood_.

"I'm not stupid," Susanna said, breaking her chain of thought. "But in situations such as this, it's probably best to clear the way a little. Wouldn't want to get on the bad side of a vicious little snake, after all."

"This vicious little snake doesn't want to be scratched by a nasty old claw," Constance retorted. "Aurelius has told me what you're capable of – and if it's him you're after, you might want to work on your technique a little. He's not masochistic enough to enjoy being insulted."

"Good point," Susanna sighed. "But it _is_ fun. What about Richard?"

"You might have to kill Teresa Symmonds if it's Richard you're after," Constance said knowledgably. "Or get yourself a lot of Slytherin friends so that when the proverbial shit hits the fan, you've got protection."

"Oh, I'm not bothered about _her_," the dark haired girl said, grinning. "She's a bit – feeble. If you don't mind me saying so."

"Not at all," Constance replied, only half sarcastically. Teresa probably _wasn't_ the best representative of House Slytherin to grace the hallowed corridors of Hogwarts, after all. "I've only known and shared a room with her for six years. Besides, you already insult Aurelius, why stop there? Take the piss out of all of us, why don't you?"

"Another good point," Susanna commented. "You're not as thick as you look. Anyway, with that out of the way, I'm off. The bet, however, isn't, so feel free to stir things up a little. Live dangerously – make us Claws proud of you."

"My goodness," Constance said, unable to suppress a smile. _She is the principle of Richard made Ravenclaw. And female, _she added as an afterthought. "You Ravenclaws really are a sick little bunch, aren't you?"

"It's all in the name of _research_," Susanna retorted. "Rowena taught us well, and we love her for it. Anyway, you lot aren't much better. The lovely little link between our two houses didn't end with the Founders, you know."

"Salazar and Rowena," Constance mused. "There's no _actual_ historical proof of that. If I remember my third year History of Magic correctly, that is."

Susanna smirked. "If you say so, oh secretive Slytherin one. Just accept that I know more than you, in lessons, in life, in short – everything."

"Secrecy or not, my house is still better than yours." Then she took in the latter half of Susanna's last remark. "And if you're short of things to do, I recommend dropping dead."

"If I'm short of things to do, I'll bear that in mind," Susanna said blandly, shoving her scattered possessions back into her cosmetics bag. She glanced into the mirror, scowled at her hair, and then headed for the door. "I'm off," she said unnecessarily. "Lovely talking to you, I'm really flattered that you deigned to acknowledge my existence, and now I'm going to drink various illicit beverages with a number of people in carriage number sixteen. I'd invite you to drop in, but they're all scared of you."

"_You're_ not."

"I'm just a good actress. Really," the dark haired girl said, rolling her eyes. "I quiver, I shake, I shudder – and Potter's not even in the room. Wonders will never cease."

"Oh, get out, do," Constance said. "Incidentally, you might stand a better chance with Richard. Teresa or no Teresa. Aurelius when mortally offended isn't exactly welcoming."

"Well, put in a good word for me!" Susanna chirped, and with that, she was gone.

_Right_, Constance thought, staring at herself in the mirror. _Aurelius_. There was no polite or tactful way to express what she was planning on doing, even less so if Susanna was going to get herself involved. And, for the information that Susanna had shared with Constance, the Slytherin thought that she couldn't, in the name of exchange, deny the dark haired girl the right. For a moment, she marvelled at the Ravenclaw who appeared so deceptively _shy _at least ninety percent of the time, then shook herself. She needed organization. Once she'd done what she needed to with Aurelius, it could only improve the situation with Tom if he were to turn his attentions elsewhere – to Susanna, in fact.  But until then, she didn't want any competition. Not on that front. There was a time and a place for everything, after all. And, Constance thought, scowling at her reflection, she'd make _damn_ sure that those people involved in this bet would pay for it. Sooner or later. Even if this wasn't top of her list of priorities at the moment, it was simply a question of dishonour. However amusing Richard might find it – and he _would_ – she wasn't the type to let something like this go unpunished. Neither was Aurelius.

_I do seem to have a wonderful talent for complicating things_, she thought, pensive for a split second. But she was perfectly capable of coping with it. Chewing her lip thoughtfully, she left the bathroom.

*

"Ambition isn't something you can define in terms of morality," Tom said, turning away from the car window to face Constance. "It's neutral," he continued. "It transcends such over-simplification. It's possibly the purest emotion – if you could call it that – that's possible to man."

"Or woman," she supplied unhelpfully. She couldn't help but wonder how their conversation had taken this turn, but it was obviously something that Tom had given great thought to. Marcus, since guiding them to the car that had been waiting for them outside the train station, had shown little or no interest in talking. He'd been engrossed in a copy of his favourite book – undoubtedly perfecting the minutiae of his assault upon Minerva McGonagall. The driver, one of her father's men, was separated from them and probably wouldn't have been interested even if he could have heard.

Tom didn't frown, exactly, but a faint flicker of impatience crossed his face. "Woman too," he said, "but you understand."

"I think," Constance said, planning her words with care, "we're the same in that respect. All Slytherins are – and if they aren't, they _should_ be. Ambition isn't evil, and therefore the baggage that that term carries shouldn't be applied to it?"

"It's beyond good and evil," Tom replied. "Whatever _those_ things are. I'm afraid that I don't share the black and white world view that so many others seem to subscribe to."

"You don't believe in them?" Constance asked, only slightly surprised. They _were_ rather abstract terms, but still. 

"Good and evil imply that there's a universal code of morality," the son of Styliane Zalaras said seriously. "A higher law. And as I _don't_ believe in a god, rather, the ability of humankind if you will to _become_ Godlike, no, I can't say that I _do_ believe in good and evil."

"The universe is entirely indifferent," Marcus said lazily, flicking past a couple of pages then putting his book away. "There's no-one to judge us."

Tom nodded. "Exactly," he said, satisfied. "And, as the only way to become Godlike is to rid oneself of such fallacies as morality – after all, if God exists, he doesn't exactly show much interest either way – then we, as Slytherins, already possess the key quality."

"Ambition?" Constance asked. She wasn't used to philosophical discussions – she found them entirely too logical for her liking – but it was a fascinating insight into Tom's mind and not an opportunity she was about to pass up.

"Ambition," Tom confirmed. "If we can take it to its purest level, with no hypocritical concessions to meaningless moral codes, then _we_ are the ones who will find it easiest to become divine, and the only judgment that matters will be our own."

"I'm not entirely sure I understand," Constance admitted. "I'm not cut out for philosophy. Or logic. Or thinking, for that matter. I just _am_, I don't think about _why_."

"_Cogito ergo sum_," the half-blooded Zalaras stated. "But that's the difference between us, because whereas you live without the need to reason, my life is a constant – and conscious – exercise in philosophy."

"To put things simply for your young and inexperienced mind," her brother said, smirking at her, "Slytherins are the best, and Gryffindors are just a bunch of virtuous idiots."

"That was – something of an exaggeration," Tom Riddle said mildly. "Gryffindors confuse bravery with virtue. That's their only failing."

"And it's quite a serious failing," Constance said, feeling that she was on safer ground. "They can get incredibly self-righteous about it."

 "And thus endeth the lesson in ethics," Marcus said. "Because we're _home_."

Although Malfoy Manor was certainly no novelty to either Constance or Marcus, they still fell silent as the car drew to the end of the long, winding Northumbrian road. _The first view was always the most impressive_, she thought, both pleased that Tom would see just how aristocratic wizarding families should live, and abashed at the same time. Tom's mother's blood was as good as her own, and yet he lived with Muggles and Constance did not.

And the first view was, indeed, impressive. Even to her. The road, which had been heading downhill, ended at ornately wrought iron gates – not the _only_ way to get past the stonewalls which circled the grounds of her home, she and her brother had found at least five others from which to get _out_, but the only way in which anyone could get _in_. The walls were, as far as she knew, all that was left of the original Malfoy estate – the manor itself had been reconstructed about a hundred years before, along Regency lines, but the walls dated back to the eleventh century.  Beyond that, an _invited_ visitor could see the lake and the family gardens – stretching quite a way, too – and then, of course, the Manor itself. The architects her family had employed in the early 1800s had had only one thing in mind – elegance. The white marble, the Queen Anne windows, in fact, the visible aspect of the house was a far cry from the grim, imposing home of the Snape family – but then, the remote area in which Aurelius lived had been prone to far more wizarding conflicts right up until the end of the last century, in fact. It had been necessary for the Snapes to maintain a decidedly intimidating appearance – and Constance personally thought it rather suited them. Aurelius' home could never be described as welcoming, but it had its own beauty. Stark, austere, and designed to terrify. It was rumoured that their gargoyles could actually be awakened in times of need – but that certainly hadn't happened within living memory. Not that Aurelius would share with her all his home's secrets. Some things were strictly family business. The architects who'd redesigned _her_ home hadn't known the half of what had been done by Alexandre and Analivia Malfoy afterwards. 

Elegance, of course, could be intimidating in its own way. It was a calculated display of wealth – and those found lacking would know about it. And apart from that, her family home had its own defences. Unwanted visitors, undesirables, or even the _plebeians_ as her father liked to call them when he was waxing lyrical, would find them out for themselves.

As the gates swung open, and the car passed through to travel along the white gravel pathway, Tom was silent, looking out of the window. She wondered, not for the first time, what he was thinking. And also wondered – mentally sighing at her own _slowness_ – why she'd never found out just what had happened to the Zalaras family home. By all rights, he should have been living there.

"Incidentally, mother's not in," Marcus said, as they passed the two carved dragons that flanked the main entrance. "She's in New York."

"And why is it that I did not know about this?" Constance demanded. "And what's she doing there, and how long will she be?"

"She's shopping," her brother informed her. "Under the pretext of visiting the Unmentionables."

Constance repressed the urge to snort. "A very thin pretext indeed." 

These particular Unmentionables, of course, were the Malfoy émigrés. _That _branch of the family, having moved to America in 1888, and _her_ branch of the family, were not on speaking terms. There was a reason for this – and it had a lot to do with her great-grandfather and his cousin taking opposing sides during the last wizarding war of the nineteenth century. Peace would undoubtedly be made at some point in the future – after all, family was family, but Constance's mother had been born a Zabini and apart from that, was decidedly lacking in the necessary diplomatic skills to reunite them. As much as it pained Constance to admit it, the only diplomatic skills her mother possessed involved the ability to inform someone that their colour co-ordination was entirely wrong – and she wasn't really much good at that, either. Tact had never been a Zabini trait, and her mother was no exception.

"Wars may rage, and the world might end tomorrow, but mother will always find a way to spend our hard-earned money on _something_," her brother said, for a brief instant sounding very like Richard.  

She'd fill Tom in that area of her family's history later, although if truth were to be told, he seemed far more interested in the décor than her mother's American antics. As Marcus disappeared down the central passage leading to the kitchens, Tom was looking at the chandelier, the paintings, the spiral staircases, with undisguised fascination. And something more, something she couldn't identify.  His eyes were shining. It could have been delight, it could have been envy, or it could have been something else entirely.

"The elves have our things in hand," she said softly, looking at him as, head tilted back, he began to turn in a slow circle, taking in the hall again. "I'll show you to your room – dinner won't be long."

She wasn't sure if he'd heard her at first, he showed no acknowledgement that she'd spoken – but then he turned to her so swiftly that she almost jumped.

"_Yes_," he said, smiling as he took her hand, "this _is_ the place. This is right."

Constance smiled back. This was her home, this was her place, and he was part of it. Part of the spell, part of the family that was for some reason entwined with her own, and it was fitting, very fitting, that the blood magic of the Fidelius Familia Charm would be performed here, in Malfoy Manor, very soon. And then everything would be clear. The blood would wash away to reveal the secret, and if there was a sacrifice to be made with Aurelius, then it was all right, it would be worth it, because it was a sacrifice made upon Tom's behalf. They had been linked for centuries. Her family and his, and he was the last of his line. 

Loyalty mattered. Always.

*****


	16. Fidelius Familia

****

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. With the exception of Tom Riddle, Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall Professor Binns and Armando Dippet, the characters belong to me. The descendants of the Malfoys, Snapes, Blacks and Potters belong to J K Rowling, but I'm sure you could figure that out for yourself. 

****

Acknowledgments: This chapter's taken a very long time, but I have been Sick and Weak…and Lazy. Humble Apologies. Thanks to McTabby for prods and absinthe, Peeler for various FAPplugs (I saw them!), and to everyone who reviewed.

The Serpentine Chain Part One

Chapter Sixteen – Fidelius Familia

Up the rotating spiral staircase that had been proven to be the exact mathematical centre of the castle, through a series of small yet impressive portrait galleries, into the Lily Chamber. Along with Malfoy Manor's Rose Room, this was one of the seven wonders of wizarding architecture. Peleus Snape had built it in the mid-sixteenth century, for his wife Ophelia. Improbably large, and filled with lilies that would never wither, or die, the majority of the room was composed of water. Slender bluestone paths decorated with pebbles criss-crossed the chamber, and the precise depth of the ponds created had not yet been ascertained. Within the branches of the giant willow tree - which grew from the centre of the room and provided a ceiling for the room, concealed wind chimes sang gently, although no wind was blowing. The walls were mirrors. Waterwheels and weeds gave the room a green shimmer.

The Lily Chamber, and Ophelia Snape's death, were, as family legend had it, the inspiration for certain characters and events in a supposedly Muggle writer's tragedy. Ophelia Snape, never strong, had not lasted long as mistress of the island. She'd drowned herself, here, in the Lily Chamber, after less than a year as Peleus' wife. Of course, it was pure speculation to wonder whether Christopher Marlowe - Richard's family's black sheep - had ever introduced Peleus Snape to William Shakespeare, just as it was pure speculation to wonder whether Shakespeare himself had been a Muggle-born wizard.

He had never spent much time in the Lily Chamber - it was traditionally the province of the family's women. Melora Snape had taken to it, in recent years, despite Valerius' silent disapproval, and it was an unspoken rule that the Chamber was out of bounds to all others. He was only there now to greet her, after having made the journey home. She'd given him permission for that.

She was sitting on the small green bench under the willow tree. He picked his way through pebbles and overgrowing weeds, wondering whether the house-elves too had been banned from the room. The flora and fauna of the Lily Chamber seemed a little too unruly for his liking. It suited his mother, though, perfectly.

"_Maman_," he said, bowing his head slightly. His mother's language. Melora had her own family heritage too, as well as her husband's.

Melora Snape, formerly Dubois, stretched out an extremely thin arm, extending her hand for him to kiss. Suppressing his impatience, he did so, wondering as his lips brushed her fingers whether she'd been ill recently. Never especially robust, she looked a lot paler than was usual. Perhaps her sudden fragility was deceptive, though, as her voice when she'd greeted him had been as composed as ever.

"_Tout bien_?" she asked, referring to a number of things.

"_Tout bien_," he answered, with no qualms whatsoever at the minor distortion of the truth. All _was_ well, academically and socially - he'd offended nobody important and the Constance situation was not, he felt, going to be something he would tell his mother.

The customary formalities thus attended to, Aurelius decided to voice what had been annoying him ever since his train had arrived at platform 9 and ¾ and he'd found no one there. Not his father, as was usual, to take him on the usual trip down Knockturn Alley to purchase certain potions ingredients that could only be bought by a leading member of their family, not even his uncle. No one. 

He'd made his way along Diagon Alley, to pick up his own essentials, contemplating whether or not to owl home. He'd decided not to - coming to the conclusion that his father expected him to make the Knockturn Alley purchases by himself. After all, he'd have to do it someday and it was hardly his father's style to inform him of this new development beforehand. It was a simple initiative test.

"Where is my father?" he asked, slipping out of the ritual French.

She flashed him a disapproving glance before replying. "You may well ask," she said, coolly.

"He's not here?" 

"Evidently not, Aurelius," his mother said, with some impatience. "He has been away for three days, now. I expected him back yesterday."

"Have you sent an owl?" Aurelius asked, suppressing his annoyance. Sometimes his mother could be deliberately infuriating.

This time his mother looked more irritated than impatient, her mood echoing her son's. "Yes," she said. "He has not seen fit to reply."

"Well - what about my uncle? Or Quintus? They might know -"

"I doubt it's the crisis situation you're imagining, _mon fils_," his mother said dryly. "This is not the first time, and it is extremely unlikely to be the last."

"What do you mean?" Aurelius asked, his mind rapidly flitting through various possibilities. His father could have been detained longer than expected at one of his meetings with the Ministry, old business contacts might be proving particularly troublesome, what with the war, or, and here Aurelius grimaced slightly, his father might have taken a mistress. _Angels and ministers of grace defend us_, he thought.

"Don't be a child, Aurelius," Melora Snape returned sharply, almost as if she'd read his thoughts. "I would have thought your cousin had taught you better than that," she added snidely.

He was used to his mother's rapid mood swings, but was still not entirely comfortable with them. "I presume his - meeting - has been somewhat prolonged, then?" he asked calmly. "Considering the current political situation…"

"No doubt you presume correctly," his mother replied, sounding bored. "What would _I_ know of that?"

__

More than you're letting on, I imagine, Aurelius thought, _seeing as you deal with our business matters whilst he's away. _

"I would have written to you during the term," Melora Snape said then, suddenly changing the subject. "If I had not been otherwise occupied."

"Oh?" Aurelius asked, mostly out of politeness. His mother's letters, rare as they were, were usually only concerned with how well he was doing in school subjects. Then again, things _had_ happened this term regarding his mother's old school.

"The Beauxbatons students," she said, confirming his guess. "Which of them do you know?"

"Surely," Aurelius replied with a slight smirk, unable to resist trying to disconcert his mother, "my cousin has already told you which students have been Sorted into Slytherin?"

"That isn't what I asked," his mother answered. "As you very well know."

"I know none of them especially well," Aurelius responded, with a shrug. "Out of the Slytherins, Remy Flaubert and Camille Chirac prefer to stick together, although occasionally they mingle with Paul Tudor and Simon Harper. Jacques Sarrassin keeps company with the Lestranges - out of the Ravenclaw lot, I've only actually spoken to Philippe DuPré - he does Divination with Constance. I'm not on especially close terms with any of them."

His mother nodded thoughtfully. "Interesting," she said. "That might be best, yes."

Aurelius raised an eyebrow, although he wasn't really expecting a straight answer from her. It was, as was quite obvious to him now, past time he began to think for himself. He felt sure he knew where she was coming from, too. What with his family's close association with both the Ministry and the Malfoys, it would only complicate matters further if he were to become close friends with a Beauxbatons student. Especially when so little was known about their background - the supporters of Grindelwald amongst the French were legion. The Snapes did not wish to be tainted by association. Considering his family were working closely with the Ministry at present – perhaps it would be advisable to maintain his distance from the new students. 

"Go and prepare yourself for dinner," his mother ordered, ignoring the query in her son's eyes. "I shall see that the new Potions ingredients are stored correctly."

"Done already," Aurelius said with a touch of smugness. He _had_ been expected to do the Knockturn Alley trip himself. "I took care of that before I came to you."

"Then what are you waiting for?" Melora Snape answered, her sharpness returning. "Go and change."

*

With hands that were not, perhaps, entirely steady, Matthew Seraphim lit his cigarette. A long inhalation, then a wreath of smoke issued from his lips.

"You don't have to tell me anything," Christopher said then, thinking that he'd never seen his friend smoking before.

"No," Matthew replied, his voice steady. Christopher wasn't sure whether it was a denial, or agreement, until the Flight instructor continued. "You probably should know the kind of person we're dealing with. To be fair."

"I've seen enough to know what he's like," Christopher said truthfully. "You don't need to tell me any more."

"What you saw at the pub," Matthew began, and then paused. "That isn't - that wasn't - all of it. It wasn't simply a matter of personal betrayal. It wasn't quite as it seemed."

Christopher was silent, partly because he couldn't think of anything to say, partly because he felt certain his friend would continue without prompting.

"I wouldn't have lost it like that if it had been," the Head of Gryffindor said, without looking at Christopher. "What he did in the pub was malicious, and deliberate, but that wasn't the half of it."

"There's history between you, isn't there?" Christopher asked, even though he knew the answer. He couldn't help remembering the exchange between his friend and the Divination teacher. The words, unbidden, sprang back into his mind.

__

I didn't think you cared.

But there's the rub - you did_._

He'd not wanted to hear more, then. He'd wanted to leave, to get away from something so personal that had had no business in such a public place. So he'd gone to the bar, hoping that Quintus would join him, and that they could give Matthew the privacy he needed. But the Potions master had stayed - and it hadn't taken a genius to work out why. Blood mattered, didn't it?

"Does it bother you?" Matthew replied, steadfastly not looking at him. "My - preferences?"

Despite himself, Christopher had to smile. "I went to the _Conservatoire_," he said. "Although not mine personally, such preferences might as well have been entry requirements. So no, it doesn't bother me."

"It bothers me," his friend said softly. "I'm not a bohemian musical revolutionary, or a writer, or anything that would make it acceptable. It's - not what I want. But it _is_ what I am. He knows that, and so does she."

"It's not wrong," Christopher said, trying to reassure him. "It's -"

"It is," Matthew interrupted. "When it causes you to place your trust - your affections - in someone who cares nothing for them, uses them for their own ends - it's wrong."

"That's not your fault," the Chantwork teacher said, his brow furrowed. "It's not wrong to trust people, surely - you can't know whether you'll be let down or not."

The Flight instructor smiled bitterly. "_Now_ you sound like Albus."

"I don't think it's wrong to trust," Christopher agreed. "But - I believe you are right about Octavius Malfoy. I don't know what happened between you, I don't need to know, but what I saw that night convinced me. He's not to be trusted."

"He hates us," Matthew said, breathing out cigarette smoke. "Or - worse - he doesn't actually hate us, because that would mean he sees us as people. We're just _things_ to him."

"I know," Christopher said. He remembered Octavius Malfoy's remarks very well. He also remembered the way Quintus had tried to persuade him that not all purebloods felt the same way. Just as he remembered the way Quintus had refused to leave the table that night. He didn't _blame_ Quintus, as such, but just at present he didn't particularly feel like talking to him. The Potions master, for his part, had seemed to accept that. Since the term had ended, and the students had gone home, the two hadn't really spoken, apart from the odd word at mealtimes.

The Head of Gryffindor was silent for a while. Then - "I met him in Siberia. In 1933 - the War, you know."

"You fought?" Christopher asked, surprised. Matthew had never mentioned anything about that before - although, given the circumstances, it was understandable.

"On the side of the Separatists," Matthew answered. "Fighting for their independence against the Russian Wizarding Federation."

"I know very little about Russian politics," Christopher confessed, thinking that his brother would have had a much better grasp of the situation. _Should've paid more attention to Binns_, he thought ruefully. "But I would have thought you'd have been on the other side - Communism, and so forth."

"What the Russians are doing isn't Communism," Matthew replied. "The Separatists had a much purer form of it, and the Siberian wizards just don't want to be part of the Federation - but that's beside the point. When I met Malfoy, he was apparently on the Separatist side. We - worked together."

"Malfoy?!" Christopher asked. He couldn't see it. Not at all.

"Oh," Matthew said, laughing bitterly. "Don't be fooled - he wasn't fighting for anybody's independence. He wasn't even bothered about the outcome of the war. He worked for whoever would pay him the most, and as it turned out, that was to be the Federation. Only he was _very_ good at pretending otherwise."

Christopher thought he could see where this was going. "Oh dear," he said softly. "He used you?"

"He had me completely fooled," Matthew said bleakly. "I genuinely believed he was the exception to the Malfoy rule - the wanderer, you know, cast adrift from his family - the one who actually believed in something, in equality. He was laughing at me all the time, and he told me so at the end."

"What happened? I don't know the details - I only know that the Separatists lost their bid for independence - but wasn't there some way of proving him guilty? Even if he had to be held to account here?"

"He covered his tracks too well. We didn't lose because of him - but he made it more personal. For me. Besides, there's nothing that could have been done here. It wasn't _our _war."

"I see," Christopher said. "It must have been - very difficult, working with him these past years."

Matthew shrugged dismissively. "I haven't exactly tried to hide my dislike. I'd hoped that the Headmaster would have seen through him by now, especially with Grindelwald threatening Britain now - but he won't do anything. But Albus has helped."

"But surely you were right - he shouldn't be teaching, not here. Not after what happened at Beauxbatons."

An odd, almost closed expression crossed the Head of Gryffindor's face. "I would have agreed," he said slowly, "but Albus has convinced me that the best way to keep an eye on him, is to keep him here. Where his actions can be - monitored."

"With or without the Headmaster's knowledge?" Christopher asked, suspecting the latter.

Matthew looked decidedly shifty. "Dippet is a good man, and a good teacher, but he's not infallible. And Albus' connections at the Ministry - go somewhat further than one would expect. If -" 

"If?" the Chantwork teacher prompted him.

"If Malfoy's found doing _anything_," Matthew Seraphim said, "anything that will link him to Grindelwald, the right people at the Ministry will be informed. Then, hopefully, they can trace others through him."

Christopher was silent for a moment, thinking. "What part do you play in this?"

"A minor one," the Flight instructor replied swiftly. "He - Malfoy - knows I suspect him. He's not likely to do anything in a less than circumspect fashion if he thinks I'm watching." He hesitated. "He might try to act through another."

"But surely she would be too obvious?" Christopher asked, then realised who his friend meant. "_No._"

Matthew's brow was furrowed in what seemed like genuine concern. "You must have noticed," he said, "both Malfoy and Haven have been very close to Quintus recently. You saw it for yourself, the other night." 

"Quintus _wouldn't_," the Chantwork teacher protested, although he had, in fact, noticed. He'd also noticed the discomfort in the Potions Master's face when his path had crossed the Divination teacher's. 

"Malfoy is very good at manipulating people - I don't mean to cast aspersions upon your friend."

"He wouldn't do anything to help Grindelwald. I know it. I know _him_," he ended, with more certainty in his voice than he felt. He could not quite erase the feeling of betrayal he'd had, when Quintus had stayed to watch the scene between the others that night. It had felt as though Quintus had made his choice - but it _didn't_ mean he'd work for Grindelwald.

"He might not even be aware of it," Matthew said carefully. "_I_ wasn't."

That was true. "What should we do?" Christopher asked, heavily.

"The only thing we can do," the Head of Gryffindor replied, his eyes sympathetic. "You know him better than I do - watch and wait."

Whether Quintus had let him down or not, Christopher did not want him getting into trouble. He knew his friend; he knew that any challenge presented by Octavius Malfoy would intrigue him. And he wasn't sure just how levelheaded Quintus would be, when faced with something that provoked his curiosity. Furthermore, he didn't want to sit and watch whilst the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher used his friend. He wanted to ignore the little voice that told him they were at war - that others could be traced through Malfoy's actions. He wondered what his brother would have done - but he knew the answer to that already. _Professionalism is paramount_. 

"I don't want him getting caught up in something like this," he said, aware that it was probably too late. _I certainly don't want him used as bait. Whatever happens, he's still a friend._

"Keep an eye out for him, then," Matthew replied, after a pause. "Try and make sure he doesn't get himself too involved with Malfoy's affairs. But -"

"But what?"

"Everybody knows that the Snapes and Malfoys are on good terms," the other man replied, as tactfully as possible. "And you know how seriously purebloods take the matter of family."

He did, only too well. And that was something Christopher Cale didn't really want to think about - not at length, and after the other night, not at all.

*

Aurelius had hardly expected his father to provide an explanation for his absence, and so he was not surprised to find none immediately forthcoming as Valerius Snape gave him a brief yet concise summary of the family's business dealings over the past few months. This was customary at the end of each term. Routine work pure and simple - later he would no doubt have to study various accounts and ledgers in order to familiarize himself with the financial side of the business. Knowledge of one's finances was simple common sense, even if he wasn't expected to carry out all the menial work himself. That was left to the few carefully chosen men his father had handpicked, years ago. It just wasn't the done thing to actually be_ seen _running one's own business. That implied one needed to work to survive - and his family certainly didn't. They upheld their business because they were good at it, because very few others could produce certain potions with the necessary skill, and because they enjoyed it. And it paid off.

Although the seventeen year old usually enjoyed these meetings with his father, his precise mind revelling in the minutiae of major contracts, he was for once anxious to get it over and done with. He had learned enough from his cousin, however, to appreciate that what his father was telling him now was entirely superficial. There were other, more important matters to be dealt with, and Aurelius was firmly convinced that his father would soon be continuing where Quintus had left off. He was aware of a strong sense of anticipation, for several reasons. Firstly there was the intellectual pleasure he felt at the prospect of what he could only term as _scheming_ at the highest level. With the Ministry, no less - and all that entailed. The further complications provided by his family's association with the Malfoys, the possible shifting of allegiances and redefinition of loyalties. This was what he _thrived_ on, it was what he had been trained to do. Then, and he didn't feel especially guilty for admitting this, there was the baser glee in the confirmation that _he_ was the family's heir, and he, not Quintus, would be privy to his father's knowledge. For the past term, it had been Quintus who had possessed information that he himself had not - although Aurelius was not petty enough to resent this, he could appreciate the turning of the tables. It was all in the way of things. His cousin had begun his education; his father would complete it.

"For the duration of nine years," his father ended with considerable severity, and Aurelius realised with a sudden start that although he had taken everything in, he hadn't been paying as close attention as usual. His father had noticed, of course, but would undoubtedly know why.

"With the possibility of renewal at the end of that period?" Aurelius asked, mostly to prove that he had been listening. The detail of the contract with St. Mungo's _was_ interesting, after all. After a fashion.

"Quite," his father said coolly, without even the slightest glint of amusement in his dark eyes. "After this, you can read the terms of the contract yourself."

__

Oh, for pity's sake, Aurelius thought without any true irritation. He could accept his father's rebuke. Even when there were matters of great importance to be attended to, it was still necessary to maintain total control over other areas. For appearance's sake, if nothing else. Crushing the desire to sigh, he prepared himself to wait. He knew his father far too well to expect anything now.

Nevertheless, Valerius Snape had not lost the ability to take his son aback. "Although I can see you are clearly bursting with enthusiasm," he said, "there are other more pressing matters to be attended to."

"Such as?" Aurelius replied, his eyebrows raising - the only sign of surprise he permitted himself before his father.

"Your activities with Quintus are all very well," the older man began, turning the full force of his gaze upon his son. "But it is past time I began teaching you myself."

Aurelius nodded, more as a means of acknowledgment than assent, uncertain as to what he should say.

"As you are fully aware, we are providing the Ministry with very valuable potions," Valerius continued, "as part of an agreement I reached with them a good few years ago. In return, we gained a certain amount of immunity from the varied security checks carried out by the government upon operations such as ours. You will no doubt have noticed the decrease in official visits to our laboratories."

As Valerius paused, his son nodded thoughtfully, his mind mulling over what had just been said. A good few years ago - Quintus had no doubt been carrying out such work long before Aurelius had been aware of it. _And perhaps not just for the Ministry_, he thought, with sudden interest. The Ministry, of course, had very simple motivations where the agreement was concerned.

"A way of securing our loyalty?" he wondered aloud.

"Our loyalty cannot be _bought_," his father replied sharply, "although you are quite correct. We were being - placated - in this way, as the Ministry knows full well how restricted our work has been by certain legislation."

"And they wish to persuade us that looking elsewhere would be less profitable," Aurelius said, bringing out into the open what his father had as yet left unspoken. Valerius Snape often appreciated this forthrightness in his son, as long as it was tempered with a modicum of caution. Which Aurelius could do, quite easily.

"Now more than ever," his father answered, the slight dip of his head the only real sign of satisfaction his son had ever seen. It was enough, though, and Aurelius felt a sudden glow of pride. He would not disappoint his father when his time came. "It seems the Ministry is somewhat less than certain about the outcome of this war. They _need_ our loyalty. My recent meetings with them convinced me that they seem willing to do anything to ensure it."

"Are we bound, then?" Aurelius asked shrewdly, thinking of his family's motto_. Loyaultie me lie_. If his father had made an agreement, signed and sealed in the traditional fashion, there was almost nothing on earth that would prevent him from keeping his word.

"We were," Valerius Snape replied, with sufficient emphasis upon the last word to indicate that this was no longer the case. "I do not break my word lightly," he continued, "and nor have I done so. Yet."

There was only one possible reason for a Snape to even contemplate breaking an oath. "What has happened?" 

"I should not need to tell _you_ that our family kept our side of the agreement faithfully."

"No," Aurelius agreed. It went without saying. "They broke it? Why would they be so stupid, if they need us so badly?"

Valerius Snape smiled coldly. "The Ministry is no longer what it used to be," he said. "Our word would once have been enough - _true_ wizards would have known and accepted this. Unfortunately, certain officials do not seem to share the sense of honour held by old families - understandable, of course," he added with what could almost have been described as a sneer, "when one considers that _these_ wizards have no reputable backgrounds whatsoever."

Aurelius understood what his father was saying. There was a considerable amount of distrust amongst the members of the Ministry - purebloods whose families had traditionally held governmental posts for centuries - and the recently admitted Muggleborns. Distrust on both sides, for although the Muggleborns felt that their rights would be overlooked if they did not push their cause, the purebloods believed that without a respectable wizarding lineage, there could be no true understanding of wizarding culture. It had not been an easy decision, the admission of non-purebloods into the Ministry, and it still rankled.

"I presume these wizards want us investigated then," Aurelius mused. "In order to heighten their sense of security. But are we really expected to keep _our_ word if they do not keep theirs?"

"No," his father said simply. "They have made it quite clear what the penalties will be if we do not conform to their wishes - but what they fail to understand is that our loyalty cannot be bought and _will not _be coerced."

There was a tightly controlled anger in Valerius Snape's voice, and with that Aurelius could empathise. Not only was this breach of contract insulting in its implications, it simply revealed a total lack of understanding upon the part of the Ministry. Oaths of service, oaths of loyalty - these were not to be broken. If one party did break such a mutual agreement, it was nullified. Everybody knew that. It was why his family made very few oaths. Those that were made, were kept with almost religious devotion - but it was an oath that worked both ways. _Nobody_ would keep a bargain after it had already been broken, and threats would only compound the insult. It was amazing that the Ministry had not seen this.

"When you were away," Aurelius began, "was _this_ the reason?"

His father nodded curtly. "They were courteous enough at least to warn us in advance," he said, his lip twisting with sarcasm, "A delegation from the Department of Hazardous Substances will be arriving at the beginning of January - ostensibly to see if our laboratories conform to health and safety regulations."

"Subtle," Aurelius commented dryly. "I take it we're to give them full co-operation?" _Adding injury to insult_, he thought. _Of course our laboratories conform to those regulations. We bloody well helped to _write_ them_. And _that_ had been dull, tedious work. Aurelius was of the opinion that regulations were only there to stop idiots from blowing themselves up. Potions-work should be left to those who were capable, and if you were too stupid to know what you were doing, you got what you deserved for meddling in things beyond your ken.

"Naturally," Valerius Snape replied, and so bland was his tone that Aurelius wasn't sure, at first, what to make of it.

A thought struck Aurelius then, as he remembered the conversation he'd had with his mother earlier. She'd warned him away from the Beauxbatons students – but if the Ministry had broken their word to his family, perhaps certain of the French students would have connections that could be exploited. Interesting indeed, he thought, but probably too obvious. No. He would not go down that avenue – not until his father made his stance on the matter quite clear. There was too much at risk.

*

Her sleep hadn't been peaceful, not since she'd come back home for Christmas. Her dreams were disturbing, filled with images she couldn't cling onto when she'd awoken, images that dissolved without a trace leaving only a profound sense of unease. Fear? Almost. She'd asked Tom to share her bed, earlier that night, hoping his presence would calm her, somewhat. They were far enough away from the heart of the Manor for no-one to notice him slipping into her room, up here in the turret that she'd loved since childhood they were safe. Almost completely cut off from the rest of the world, it felt. Safe enough, safe from discovery. Not that her uncle would care, and Marcus had made it quite clear that he approved. Her parents, on the other hand, were probably better off not knowing.

Besides. She hadn't exactly done anything yet. She and Tom had slept together, curling up in the Zalaras Wing, and admittedly, they hadn't been altogether pure in their intent – but technically, she was pure. He had been reluctant to stay with her that night, three nights before Christmas Day, not wishing to do anything to disturb the perfect balance of his stay with her family. For it was, surprisingly, perfect. Her father had treated Tom well. As if the matter of his Muggle heritage was irrelevant. Which, in his case, was true.

But she'd persuaded Tom to stay, and if she'd had any secret hopes of something else happening that night, they were dashed. He'd simply turned back her duvet, naked apart from the dressing gown that was becoming a second skin to him, and lain down silently. She'd lain beside him, and waited for the dreams she knew would come. As far as she could tell, Tom had gone straight to sleep.

Except, as things turned out, he hadn't.

Halfway through the night, or thereabouts, she woke suddenly, shocked out of sleep by some nameless, voiceless fear. This terror, a residue from a dream, deepened as she found that there was no-one beside her. Had he _gone_? 

She sat up abruptly, to find moonlight streaming into her room, casting a pale shimmer over all she could see. And Tom was there, on the window seat, staring out into the dark. Sitting so still, even though he must have heard her move, even though he must have been freezing. For half a moment, she caught herself wondering whether he'd frozen, he seemed so marble-still in the ethereal light – then she shrugged the thought away, irritated with herself.

"Can't you sleep?" she asked him.

"I prefer not to," he replied, not turning away from the window. There was no inflection in his voice, no hint as to what he might have been feeling as he continued. "You were dreaming again."

"Yes," Constance said, trying to shake away the lingering fear that remained. "I can't remember what it was about. But – it wasn't pleasant."

"I heard," he told her, staring at the moon. "You cried out, several times."

"What did I say?" Constance was amused, as well as a little embarrassed. _At least he didn't say I snored_.

"Nothing that made sense. Are you nervous?" he asked suddenly, taking her by surprise with his swift change of subject.

He would be able to see right through any pretence at ignorance. It would insult them both. "About Christmas?" she asked baldly. "Yes. A little."

"So was Marcus," Tom murmured, mostly to himself.

"But he went through with it," she said, simply. "As will I."

He still would not look at her. "It hurts."

"I know."

"And the blood."

"It's the way it's done. And it's worth it, isn't it?"

"Afterwards," the boy said, softly. "Oh yes."

"Yes," she said, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. "Afterwards. I _want_ to do this, Tom."

She could see his shoulders tense at the sound of his name. But he did turn to her, then, his features obscured by shadow. Waiting. 

So Constance went over to the window, ignoring the chill, wrapping her arms around her for warmth. The pale blue silk nightdress was no protection against the cold wood of the window seat, against the frigidity of the glass.

"The Rose Room," Tom said, moving to allow her space beside him. His arm slipped around her, reassuringly warm. In fact, she noticed, he did not seem cold at all. His face was almost flushed, and she could feel heat radiating from him although his feet were bare.

"What about it?"

She'd taken him there, on his first day at Malfoy Manor. Marcus had gone off to his room, shutting himself up to write lengthy love letters to McGonagall. _A sad task, but someone's got to do her_, he'd said to his sister. _You must keep our guest entertained_. And in truth, there was a lot to keep even the most flighty of minds interested – not that Tom was in any way flighty. He'd spent hours just looking around the grounds, quietly, alone, whilst Constance had been kept a virtual prisoner by her well meaning but usually misguided mother. Finally released from her mother's ideas for personal improvement, Constance had taken Tom indoors, to the Rose Room. The pride of Malfoy Manor.

He'd been entranced, completely and utterly so. Even Constance, familiar with the room for at least five years now, never ceased to be captivated by its overpowering beauty. Roses, and so many of them, of the rarest, most beautiful types – somehow growing up the walls. Petals everywhere, underfoot, mid-air, or frozen and shaped around tiny glow-worms to create strange night lights. And the delicate interplay of shading, between white, light pink, and so many shades of red! The great Rose Window cast its light upon the room, traditionally at its best at sunrise or sunset – Constance herself preferred the moonlight, silver kisses on rose petals, turning the room into a nightscape of flowers and scent. It was sensuous. Romantic. Designed for a purpose Constance did not know, and, curiously enough for her, had never wanted to know. The human reason for its conception would not have added anything to its beauty. 

"It should be done there," Tom informed her, every inch of him assured. "It is fitting."

"It's out of bounds, during the Ball," she said thoughtfully. "After Pronobius Tilliticus saw fit to throw up in there years ago. So if there won't be any interruptions –"

"We can use it," Tom finished for her, filled with certainty. He stood up, smoothly and swiftly, then took her hand. "There will be no-one there."

"The Rose Room it is, then," Constance agreed, letting Tom lead her to the bed.

"The fairest rose in the Malfoy garden," he said, his smile genuinely wicked. "She'll be plucked before long."

And, despite all her worries, she was glad.

*

"You disapprove of me. Don't you?"

He hadn't expected that, or the frank challenge in her eyes. He knew what she was talking about, of course. He just hadn't expected so direct a reference to the incident she'd helped to set up in the Three Broomsticks that week before the end of term. 

"It's none of my business," he said calmly. Which, in the narrowest possible sense, was true. He really _didn't_ care about Matthew Seraphim's private life, not enough to formulate approval or disapproval anyway.

Elspeth Haven smiled dryly. "Isn't it?"

Quintus turned away, to glance at the simmering cauldron he'd been keeping under close observation for the past few hours. Nothing too complicated - in fact, had the term not ended, he would have had some of his students produce it instead. An Anaesthetizing Potion, one of the simplest, to replenish school supplies.

"What Matthew Seraphim does is not my concern," the Potions master replied indifferently. There had been more to it than that, but he was not planning to address it outright. Not with her, not with anyone. Perhaps not even Christopher - although he felt he owed his friend an explanation of some sort. He did not want to leave things the way they were - not after the way Christopher had left that night at the pub.

"But you do disapprove," she said, and it wasn't a question.

He did not want a confrontation, and nor did he want to be drawn into whatever was going on between Octavius and Elspeth. The example that had been made of Matthew Seraphim that night had shown him that he'd have to be very careful when dealing with the two Slytherin teachers. Seraphim had been played for a fool, that much was obvious. Although he rated his own intelligence far more highly than the Head of Gryffindor's, he would still need caution. _Fools rush in_, he told himself. _Tread lightly_.

"Of what, exactly?" he asked, warily. 

"Me," she said simply, and he hadn't expected _that_ either. "You disapprove of what I helped Octavius to do."

"As I said," Quintus replied, enunciating his words clearly, "it's none of my business."

"You think me cruel, perhaps," the Divination teacher said, ignoring him. Her voice was soft, contemplative as she continued. "And I shall grant you malicious - for I _do _enjoy stirring things - but do you think me entirely heartless, Quintus? Ought I to have shown some feminine compassion?"

"Why does my opinion concern you?" he asked her, bluntly. 

"A woman likes a man to think well of her," Elspeth replied, her green eyes widening artlessly. "Unless she's been _very_ bad." 

__

Don't start this now, Quintus thought, very much aware of his predicament. But it was that, he thought, that distinguished him from Seraphim, who undoubtedly had _not_ known what type of situation he had got himself into. He was not as innocent as the Head of Gryffindor, and Quintus could not resist the response that came, unbidden, to his lips. "Moths flutter into candle-flames," he murmured, "but can the candle help it? What you and Octavius have done with Seraphim does not concern me."

"Not at all?" she asked, amusement in her voice.

"I wouldn't have expected either of you to show Seraphim pity," Quintus said truthfully. "And I believe you made your position quite clear," he added, thinking of the predatory way in which Elspeth had marked Octavius as her territory.

At that she smiled, suddenly. "I _see_," she said, and he was instantly even more uncomfortable than he had been before.

"That's what you're paid to do," he replied, wishing he could have thought of a better response. "It's in your job description."

Choosing to overlook his rather paltry witticism, the Divination teacher continued. "We weren't warning _you_ off, Quintus - surely you know that?"

"Just Seraphim?"

"Just Seraphim," she confirmed. "Octavius is no longer of the inclination to lower his standards like that."

And _that_ came very close to home. Perhaps because of the guilt that he already felt about Christopher. He would not accept this. Seraphim he could ignore - Christopher he could not. "You forget," he said coolly, "that Christopher Cale is my friend. Is _that _a lowering of standards?"

Despite - or perhaps because of - the warning in his voice, she came closer. "Are you _very_ close to him, then?"

The implication disturbed him. As did she. "No," he said, beginning to grow angry. With all of them - Elspeth, Octavius, himself. "Not everything is as sexually charged as you'd no doubt like to make it."

"And now you're cross," she said triumphantly. She was far too close to him for comfort. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to throttle her, or -

"Yes," he said, instead. He was deeply irritated, and suddenly sick of the whole game. "Congratulations are in order," he added, weighting his words with sarcasm.

"Indeed," she replied, matching his tone, "I've finally aroused _something_ in the chaste Potions master."

Her superior, amused smile, the way she glanced him up and down, quite familiarly, her very words - it was impossible to interpret them any other way. _This,_ said the cool, rational part of Quintus' mind, _is quite enough. You have work to do. Get rid of her, now. _

And Quintus was, at heart, a rational person. He knew that. The wisest course of action would have been to get rid of her, to have done this the moment she'd walked into his room, failing that, to do it _now_, now before her suggestions, taunts, took him somewhere he did not want to go, before she pushed him to his limits. 

But what she'd said didn't just aggravate him. It cut quite deeply - it wasn't as if he'd had any kind of _choice_ in his dealings with her, for pity's sake. She was not his, she had no right to behave like this with him, she had no right to drag him into the games she was playing with Octavius. She had no business trying to arouse anything in him, and certainly no business insulting him when she failed. And - this was particularly infuriating - it simply wasn't true. She hadn't failed, and she must have known that. He found her attractive, too much so for comfort. But he was cautious, he had to be, was it his control she found so annoying? How arrogant - assuming she could just waltz in and he'd be so flattered he'd pay no heed to the consequences.

And he certainly wasn't _chaste_.

The irritation he'd felt had blossomed into full fledged fury, overriding his natural impulse to prudence. He wanted to turn the tables, make her feel as awkward. "And why," he said, his voice low and rough, the way Flavia had liked it, "would you want to do that?"

"I like you," she said, and it was that simplicity that was his downfall, after all, not her convoluted scheming, not his anger, not any of that, just the simple stating of those three words, by a woman with green eyes and red hair. 

It took him aback. And worse. The disarming frankness that was a weapon with her, that she used whenever she wanted to disconcert him, it was far too successful. She glanced up at him through half-lidded eyes, savouring her victory. She didn't promise kindness, but she did promise honesty. Of a kind. And it was very, very appealing. And there was a danger there - 

- but she was everywhere, before he had time to formulate a response. She'd moved, into his arms, filling his senses, before he could voice what was troubling him. And then he no longer cared, and was pressing her back against his desk, the brew in his cauldron entirely forgotten, the mountains of paper on his desk unimportant, meaningless compared to the scent and taste of the woman with him, to the surge of desire, the intensity of a feeling he'd only ever had with Flavia, _it has been quite a while_, he found himself thinking as his fingers fumbled with the buttons of her robes, as her hands slipped from round his waist to unfasten them for him, _Elspeth_, he thought, seeing her beneath him, lying half-naked upon his desk, the strange, unfamiliar expression she wore, something glistening in the corner of her eyes -

And suddenly, with a dizzying sense of reality, he became fully aware of what he was about to do. 

"Don't," she said, with more than a little urgency, raising herself to pull him closer to her. He hadn't even been aware that he'd moved away. "Don't stop. Don't go."

The warmth of her skin against his - when his robes had been loosened he could not have said - the scent of jasmine. It was a heady combination. But there was a certain nervousness to her, and he found it surprising, after the play she'd made for him. He could not, in all good faith, ignore that.

"Are you sure?" he asked, brushing her hair away from her face. 

Something hard to read flashed across her face, a look of gratitude, almost, then she ran her hand along the length of his back, trailing her fingernails across his flesh, never taking her eyes from his. "Quite sure," she murmured, and pulled him down into a kiss.

He tried to please her then, making more effort with her than he'd ever made before, delaying his own pleasure as long as possible, gratified by her sharp intake of breath, her soft, very soft cries as he moved within her, rewarded as she reached her climax and then oblivious as he reached his own, his eyes closed and his face buried in her neck. 

The memory of that single tear, however, stayed with him for a very long time. When the world changed around them all, he would remember it, and wonder.

*

Looking at the silver decorations that adorned her family home, the fragile and elaborately woven silk cobwebs that graced the high ceilings, the as-yet-unlit white candles that floated mid air waiting for nightfall, the large crystal balls that would, when darkness fell, reveal the fireflies trapped inside and cast light over all, looking at all that her family had carefully prepared for that night's Christmas Ball, Constance felt again the cold claws of anxiety gripping her.

It was close. _She_ was close. To whatever would happen that night, whilst the festivities carried on down in the Hall, whilst her parents socialized, it would happen, away from the music, noise and laughter, away from all that was familiar. She'd be taken a step further, all would be revealed to her, she'd be finally, irrevocably _involved_. It was the kind of adventure she'd only dreamed about, when little - but now it was finally here she could not help but feel, not frightened, exactly, _never that_ she told herself, but what? Worried, anxious, expectant. _On edge_. She needed to calm her nerves, a drink, perhaps, or better still, a walk around the gardens. Just to clear her head.

"Not long now," her brother said softly, from behind her. 

She hadn't heard him come in, but did not turn around. "No," she replied, chewing her lip as she stared up at the ceilings. "Not long at all."

"Mother's certainly outdone herself this time," Marcus continued, commenting on the decorations. 

"It _is_ beautiful," she said, turning to look at him. "But I expect father had a hand in it - I wouldn't trust mother's sense of co-ordination."

"Oh Merlin," Marcus said, suppressing a grin. "Remember _last _Christmas?"

They were beating about the bush, and they both knew it. In a way, she was grateful for this comfort, the sense of ordinariness her brother had brought with him - the memory of her mother's previous attempts at decoration and her father's utter horror at the results could not have been further away from her thoughts of only a moment ago. 

"Only too well," she said ruefully. "If you remember, it was me that had to take charge of all that mess. It was me that had to waste my afternoon shouting at incompetent house-elves, and why? Because _somebody _wormed his way out of it." 

"Not my responsibility, sister," Marcus replied swiftly, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "It's the province of women, that is. Sad but true."

"So men say, when they want to get out of something," Constance remarked dryly. "The eternal excuse for laziness."

"We can't concern ourselves with such menial tasks," her brother said, with a lofty air. "We have higher matters to attend to." 

"Of _course_ you do. Speaking of which, is the lovely Minerva coming tonight? And I mean that in a strictly innocent sense, obviously."

"Mind your own business, you unwomanly wench," Marcus said, not looking too happy. The copious letters he'd sent off to Minerva McGonagall over the past few days had been unanswered - as Constance knew perfectly well.

"Don't say she's turned you down?" she asked, grinning. "Well, I _did_ try to warn you."

"The nun will see sense," Marcus replied serenely. "She's a bright girl. As I said before, she'll come round to my way of thinking."

"You know," Constance said innocently, "there are times when you sound awfully like _Richard_."

He glared at her.

"Richard scowls like that, too," she said helpfully.

"That boy," Marcus said coolly, "doesn't pull it off nearly as well. Now, you irritating blood-of-my-blood, go and get ready."

"It's nowhere near time yet," she protested. "People don't even think about arriving until about eight, eight-thirty -"

"And you'll need until then to make yourself presentable," her brother said, blandly. "Your hair's disgusting, there's dust on your clothes - and to be frank, you could really do with a bath."

She threw a bauble at him, but, disappointingly, he dodged it.

"You need to make an impression tonight." Marcus' eyes were deadly serious. "It's important for all of us."

"Alright," Constance agreed. "And - I know it is."

"As I told you before, the Snape family aren't to be taken lightly."

"Of course not," the blonde girl said calmly, hoping she'd managed to hide her surprise successfully. She'd thought Marcus had been talking about the blood ritual, it was all she could think about at the minute despite her best attempts to divert herself - and had almost put Aurelius out of her mind. Apart from owling him and Richard, inviting them as usual to the Ball and moaning about the amounts of work they'd been set, she hadn't seen either of them since term ended. And tonight, she'd probably have to - before -

"All right?" Marcus asked, oddly gentle. "Go. Get changed."

Grateful, but not overly thrilled for the reminder of her other tasks tonight, Constance went. She did indeed have a lot to prepare.

*

The Malfoys had many talents, and putting on a good show was certainly something they excelled at. Although he should have been used to Constance's family's aesthetic sense, Aurelius was always impressed – and this year was no exception. The grounds of the Manor, not exactly what anybody could call unattractive, were quite simply stunning. The snow working in true harmony with the decorations, silver and white everywhere. As though nature itself had conspired to make the Malfoy Ball a success.

It reminded Aurelius a little of the stories his mother had told him, very long ago, about the Dubois family ice palaces. The old ice hotel his mother had stayed in, for her sixteenth birthday. They were designed to dazzle and were ultimately successful.

"Très jolie," his mother said wistfully, echoing the gist of her son's thoughts in her own language. "Comme les chateaux des montagnes…"

"Indeed," Aurelius replied, sincerely hoping she wouldn't be speaking French all night. Then he relented a little. It had been rather a long time since his mother had set foot in her native land. "La gloire de la neige éternelle."

Melora Snape smiled indulgently at that. "One wonders what they've done inside," she said, "although truly, I cannot imagine it being more beautiful than this."

Surprisingly, then, Valerius joined in the conversation, or rather – murmured something almost inaudible to his wife. Aurelius, concentrating hard, could only make out a brief scatter of words. _La reine d'hiver_. Strangely romantic for his father – and as ever, Aurelius felt slightly odd at the thought that his parents had ever felt desire, and worse, might still do so – but appropriate for his mother. Melora had spent most of her childhood by the snow-capped peaks of the Alps. She had not had high hopes of the Snape family home, on the unpromising-sounding Summerisle, until she'd seen it for herself. Summer did not touch their island, and, Aurelius thought, the craggy exterior and rough landscape had its own beauty. _Queen of winter indeed_, he thought, watching his mother step gracefully over a bridge of ice. _Fitting for Constance, too_, he thought, and wondered at himself. 

"We should go in," he said to his parents then. "If not to be _too_ late."

*

__

Yes, Aurelius thought, _mother was right_. The interior of the manor was undoubtedly beautiful – but he shared his mother's tastes, preferring the wilder glory of the frost and snow outside, the ice sculptures, the colour of the glowing sky to the carefully cultivated delicacy of the inside. It was cold, though, and he took a glass of spiced wine from the floating tray beside him.

He couldn't see Richard anywhere, although they'd arranged to meet in the main hall at nine. Perhaps he's not coming, he thought suddenly, and felt disappointed. Quintus hadn't come either. He hadn't even come home for the day as usual. All they'd had from him was an unusually subdued letter, claiming he had too much work to organize to make leaving Hogwarts feasible, even if it were just for the night. Valerius hadn't said much, whilst reading the letter, but had simply passed it over to Aurelius, who'd wondered whether Quintus' organizing skills were being used for school purposes, or for the Ministry.

And there was no sign of Constance anywhere. It was a pity – after all, Richard's prompting and hints had spurred Aurelius on. If he were, not to put it _too_ crudely, to stake his claim, it would have to be soon. With Riddle here, in Malfoy Manor, there was no time to waste. He wondered just what on earth he was expected to do, and was beginning to feel profoundly uncomfortable when a low-pitched voice greeted him politely.

Despite his growing dislike for the halfblood, Aurelius grudgingly noted that the boy even made the correct bow. Somebody had been teaching him the correct etiquette. And somehow, Riddle had managed to dress himself decently. Interesting. Aurelius had thought the boy was penniless. Suppressing a decidedly malicious urge, Aurelius bowed back. Best not to insult a Malfoy guest in the Malfoy home, after all.

"Where are the others?" Aurelius asked. "Have you been abandoned?"

Riddle smiled. "Far from it. Marcus is a very skilled host – rather too skilled, I'm afraid. Look."

He looked, his eyes following Riddle's subtle gesture to where Marcus Malfoy stood, talking in what seemed a remarkably cozy fashion with one of the last people Aurelius would've expected to see here. Until he remembered the rather gleeful nature of Constance's last letter.

"Oh," he said, genuinely amused. "Minerva descended from the heavens, then. Interesting."

"She turned up earlier," Riddle said quietly. "Without an escort. She caused rather a stir. I thought it best to beat a tactical retreat."

"Wise of you," Aurelius replied, turning back from the distant couple to look at Tom. The boy's face was, as ever, unreadable. "Three's a crowd, isn't that what they say?"

"So I've heard." The halfblood's reply was so smooth, so unruffled, his eyes completely guileless, that for a second, Aurelius wondered whether he and Richard had not been entirely mistaken. Just for a second, though. "Constance is with Richard, if you were wondering."

"I see," Aurelius said, looking over Riddle's shoulder to where the blonde girl and Richard had entered the hall, laughing about something. Richard saw him too, despite the crowd, and began to steer Constance in their direction. Aurelius, scrutinizing them closely, noticed her stiffen almost imperceptibly when she spotted him and Riddle together. He wondered how he could tactfully extricate himself from Riddle's presence when the boy solved the problem for him.

"Well," Tom Marvolo Riddle said calmly, "I believe Regal is expecting me elsewhere."

And with a courteous inclination of his head, the halfblooded Slytherin was gone, plucking a glass of bright green liquid from the air as he went, over to where Regal Rosier was indeed waiting. With the Head Boy, no less. Watching him go, Aurelius marveled at the way Riddle had managed to ingratiate himself with the most influential of people. Especially when, strictly speaking, the boy did not have _that _much to offer. Oh, he was skilled enough at magic, often quite brilliant. There was no doubt about his wizarding ability. But he brought nothing with him. It was a wonderful example of social climbing. Quite admirable, really. 

"Felicitations of the season to you," Richard, clearly somewhat inebriated, greeted him with a large grin. "Nay – felicitations of the _epoch_, and what a wondrous one it is at that!"

Constance and Aurelius exchanged glances. "He knocks the stuff back like water," the blonde girl said, trying to sound disapproving but breaking into a giggle. "But I'm not entirely sober myself, so drink more. Both of you."

"We must keep the lady company," Richard urged, presenting Aurelius with a bottle of clear liquid. "It would be most ungallant not to. Some might even say _rude_."

"Well," Aurelius said, beginning to smile himself, "I should warn you – I could drain this room dry and still be on my feet whilst weaklings like you are fast asleep and all undignified."

"Give dignity a day off!" Richard's face was alight with unholy glee. "We're going elsewhere. Where nobody will see Constance when she passes out."

The blonde girl didn't appear to have heard that, but was scowling at the bottle in Richard's hand. "You never offered any of that to _me_," she said reprovingly. "Really charming, aren't you?"

"You've had quite enough, my dear," the brown haired boy told her. "There's nothing more unattractive than a drunken female. Especially if she's blonde. It's positively vulgar!"

"You cheeky sod," Constance exclaimed. "You were practically pouring wine down my throat earlier – vulgarity didn't come into it then!"

"Now, now, play nicely children," Aurelius scolded, taking the bottle from Richard. "Where are we supposed to be going, anyway?"

"Into the Pit," Constance said, beginning to laugh again. "As Richard so politely put it."

"There is no polite way of putting it," Richard said, taking both of them by the arm and guiding them – somewhat unsteadily – out of the hall. "Your home is lovely, your gardens are lovely, you're all very lovely people, but your dungeon is nothing more than a shithole. And that is as polite as it gets."

"It's supposed to be horrible!" she protested. "What do you expect a dungeon to look like? It just wouldn't work if it had ensuite facilities, would it?"

"She's got a point," Aurelius said. "Dungeons are not supposed to be welcoming."

"I wouldn't know," Richard replied loftily. "I live in a normal sized house with normal rooms. I don't hold with all these crazy ideas."

"They've only just put doors on your house, you horrible little pauper," Constance smirked.

"True," the brown haired boy agreed, leading them down a small corridor. "We had to sleep in rolled up copies of the _Daily Prophet_, it was that cold. Never," he said sagely, as Constance pressed the carved snake that opened up a downward stairwell, "never underestimate the importance of a good set of doors! A greater gift to wizardkind I cannot possibly imagine. Just knowing that doors exist – it restores my faith in life."

"Oh for Merlin's sake, do shut up," Constance said with mock exasperation. She took the steps two at a time, her laugh floating upwards to where the boys still stood. "If I fall, I'll hold you both responsible!"

Aurelius took a sip from the bottle, then glanced at Richard in surprise. "Water?"

"You need a clear head, my son," Richard said. "Mark my words, no good will come of alcohol. For what hath it brought mankind? Naught. Naught but grief, and a bitch of a headache in the morning – and the _horror_ when you wake up next to that particularly gruesome fifth year –"

"You're not drunk in the slightest, are you?" Aurelius asked quietly.

"Sober to the nth degree. Or thereabouts, and by such I mean not in the slightest." Richard beamed at him, then bounded down the stairs after Constance, screeching at the top of his lungs as he did so. "ALCOHOL – helping ugly people get laid ever since the Gryffindors discovered it!"

Aurelius gazed after him for a moment, then followed. It never did to underestimate Richard Marlowe. He really should have guessed that his friend would do something like this. Feigning drunkenness – quite convincingly as well – whilst getting Constance well on the way to intoxication. No doubt Richard would find some plausible excuse to leave the two of them together. Oh, it was unscrupulous really, if you took it to the logical conclusion – and entirely Richard in its conception. The only question now was how long would it take Richard to leave. No doubt he'd already prepared an excuse –

An almighty crash sounded from further down, followed by a muffled expletive. Quickening his pace, Aurelius was impressed. He hadn't expected Richard to go that far!

"What's happened?" he asked, quite pointlessly of course, as Richard was crumpled up on the floor at the foot of the stairs, clutching various parts of his anatomy.

"Ow," his friend said weakly, and then with considerably more force, "_fuck_. That hurt."

"It's your own fault," Constance said. She was inside the nearest cell, sitting on a small wooden stool and taking ladylike sips from a glass of wine. "Nobody bounces down dungeon stairs unless they want to get hurt."

"Pathetic. Even by your standards," Richard said, surprisingly sharply. 

He did look remarkably pained, Aurelius noted. Perhaps his accident hadn't been entirely faked. "Need a hand?" he asked.

"No," his friend replied, getting slowly to his feet. Gingerly, he tested his left foot. "Oh, bugger."

"It can't be broken," Aurelius said, "or you wouldn't be standing."

"Bruising and battering is pain enough thank you. But I believe I shall survive. If I'm strong of heart."

"Pity," Constance said, then drained her glass in a swift movement. "There hasn't been a death down here for about a century."

"That can be arranged, you vicious little wench," Richard mumbled, taking a few careful steps. Removing his wand from his pocket, he murmured something and a cloud of pink light enveloped his leg. "Should really have paid more attention in Charms. That isn't going to last."

"We can get someone to look at it, if you like," Aurelius offered.

Richard gave him a scathing look. "Because that'll make me look clever, won't it? Drunken idiot falls down stairs, and can't remember how to fix a simple sprain. And by the way, I'm not impressed with your lack of knowledge in that area either."

"Oh, sit down and shut up," Constance said unfeelingly. "Your leg won't drop off, and alcohol will numb the pain. Besides, I've got to go in an hour, and I'm not wasting what time I've got left listening to you crying."

"What're you going for?" Aurelius asked curiously. The Malfoy Ball ran on until the late – or early – hours of the morning.

"I'm not telling you," Constance said, looking uncomfortable. "You'll laugh. And then I'll have to kill you."

Richard looked ecstatic, his pain seemingly forgotten. "You've got to go to BED, haven't you? Aww! That's tragic, and I _am_ going to have to laugh."

"You're _joking_," Aurelius exclaimed, shocked.

"Shut it," the girl said warningly. "Fags. Just cause you two have been dragged up doesn't mean we're all allowed to run wild."

Aurelius was going to laugh, he felt sure of it. "Don't tell me your mother's trying to turn you into a proper young lady again!"

"A lost cause, I'd have thought," Richard chipped in, perkily.

Constance sighed. "She thinks I'm too young – and, well, undisciplined to stay until the end. It's _not_ funny Richard, so take that smirk off your face."

"Can't you sneak back down later? We're not leaving for ages," Aurelius said.

"No," the girl replied, glumly. "I think she's planning on warding my room. It's very sad. I'm _sixteen_, for pity's sake."

"She knows you too well," Richard said, grinning. "And she's got a tough job on her hands, if she's trying to bring decorum into _your_ life." Then he groaned. "I knew that stupid charm wouldn't last. That's it. I'm going to find myself a house-elf and get it to sort me out." Scowling, he got to his feet, making his way to the stairwell with what seemed to be, to Aurelius' eyes, rather an exaggerated limp. "Your house is a health hazard, Constance, seriously. You want to get it sorted out, love."

"You're just drunk and incredibly less than ept," Constance retorted, refilling her glass from the bottle on the cell floor. 

Aurelius decided that Richard's plan had been successful. Constance was flushed with wine, and her eyes sparkled with artificial delight. Yet there was a distinct edginess about the way she was sitting, the way she was twiddling with her hair – _and that_, he told himself, counts as _over analysis. She's probably just vexed with Richard._

"Drink piss and die," Richard said, tottering up the stairs. "And in case I don't see you before your bedtime, sleep well and don't let the bedbugs bite. Baby."

"We don't have bedbugs here, you peasant," Constance said swiftly, but her parting shot was wasted as Richard had already closed the stairwell door behind him. He'd moved surprisingly quickly for someone supposedly in pain.

"I really hope we can get out of here," Aurelius remarked casually, although he was by no means blasé about the prospect of spending a night in a dungeon. He put Richard's bottle of water away, within his robes. He didn't want Constance to ask for it.

"It's all right," she said, her eyes vague and unfocussed. "You just press the snake on the inside, and the thing opens up."

"Not very secure, is it?"

"I took the Incarceration Charms off earlier tonight," she replied, absently.

She did seem subdued, now that Richard had gone, although she was by no means sobering up. He wondered if she guessed why Richard had truly left, then felt himself flush as she looked directly at him. He'd been staring. _Fuck you Riddle_, Aurelius thought, realizing that whatever happened that night, something had changed irrevocably between himself and Constance. The easy familiarity that they'd had since childhood would never be quite the same. There would always be an edge - a heightened awareness, self-consciousness. Awkwardness. He could taste it in the back of his throat, like ashes. Or bile.

She seemed to feel it too, and turned her attention away, to the glass she held in both hands.

"Remember the Yule Ball?" she said, very softly.

He waited. He couldn't make her features out clearly in the dim light. He wished to the heavens _he_ was the drunken one.

"Don't you remember? _I_ do."

Yes. He remembered. He would never have brought it up himself, though. Had never spoken of it since their tacit agreement that night - it would remain between them, buried. It should have done.

"You kissed me," she said, not looking at him. She'd raised her head slightly and he could see the heightened colour of her cheeks.

"I did."

"And never since."

"No."

"Why?" She did turn to face him, then, her eyes distant, hands tightly clenched.

"I couldn't," he said, truthfully. He cursed himself immediately afterwards, for her startled expression told him that she'd misunderstood. 

"Was I _that_ bad?"

"I didn't mean that," he said hastily. But he'd offended her, he could tell. He sighed. "Constance – you must know that _I,_ of all people, can't judge in that area. I couldn't compare you to anyone. It wasn't supposed to sound the way it did."

Enlightenment dawned. "You haven't – no-one else?"

"No." _But obviously you have_. He left that thought where it belonged. It didn't need saying.

"Why didn't you – with me – again?"

"I don't know," he answered, almost honestly. And, truly, he couldn't quite have put his reservations into words. He just couldn't. It wasn't that he didn't find her attractive. He did. Anyone would. It was just that the thought of anything physical was, quite frankly, terrifying. It implied so much. He couldn't tell Constance _that_. 

"It doesn't come easily to me," he said, choosing his words carefully. "That kind of thing. And we never spoke about it. How was I to know whether you wanted it, or not?"

She put her glass down. "You never asked."

"Neither did you."

"You're not the most approachable of people, Aurelius," she said gently. "Certainly not in matters like this."

"But you approach me now," he pointed out, well aware that Richard would be splitting his sides if he could hear this. _He_ was the one supposed to make the first move, for pity's sake. "What is it you want from me, Constance?"

"What you can give. No more."

"Why?" He was genuinely interested, although he would much rather not have been having this conversation. 

Her voice was very low. "You're going to be my husband, one day. I thought – it'd be easier, better, for both of us – if we got used to the idea now. In every aspect."

It shocked him, in a way. He'd known Constance since they were _babies_. It wasn't right. She wasn't to be touched. He feared it would sully her, in some way. Which was ridiculous. She was no more innocent than he was, probably less so in fact. He could not have said _why_ he felt that. He was aware it wasn't logical. But he couldn't help it. 

Aurelius took a deep breath. Never had he been so aware of himself, of her. It was so unnerving – and was it this, this loss of certainty that he feared? Being completely out of his depth? He put the thought to the back of his mind. "It means this much to you?"

It seemed unlikely. But she surprised him. "Yes," she said. "It does."

What she'd said had been true enough. They'd need an heir, one day. Aurelius was quite prepared to think about what that would entail much later, not now, not here, not in the dungeon of her home. It was too sudden. _Would it be so bad_, he thought_, if she was with Riddle? As long as she came to me when the time was right? And it ended, after we were married? _But even that solution irked him. How odd, that he could not bear to think of Constance with anyone else, but he could not touch her himself. _How pathetic_.

"I can't pounce on you, Aurelius." She sounded strangely sad.

He came to a decision then, and stood up, taking her hand. Drawing her to her feet. She wasn't tall. She barely came up to his shoulders. Her eyes were fixed on his, wide and almost disturbing in their intensity. Trying not to think too hard, Aurelius brought a hand up to cup the side of her face. She didn't flinch, didn't look away. Her gaze didn't waver for an instant.

"Are you sure," he started to ask, when she stepped up on to the tips of her toes and kissed him.

He felt her lips against his, the not-unpleasant sensation of soft, warm skin. He felt the delicate intrusion of her tongue, the gentle pressure of her hands upon his back. He felt her tremble as he wrapped his arms around her.

It didn't feel bad. It didn't feel especially good, either. It was nice, in a way. He might have enjoyed it more if he hadn't been watching himself, his actions, from a distance. He couldn't lose himself in this. That was the problem. He was analyzing it, as it happened, and, he felt, that was fatal. 

And then she moved her hand downwards.

__

No, no, no! Without thought, without intention, he pulled back slightly, breaking away from her. She stopped dead, looking at him uncertainly. He tried to smile, moved closer again.

"You really hate this, don't you?" she said. "Tell me."

"No," he replied. "Just – not now. Not _here_."

She was silent, then nodded, slowly. "There's no rush."

He wanted to crawl away and die in a hole. The humiliation was bad enough, but it was the look in her eyes. Disappointment. Maybe even a trace of pity. Gods. It was so _embarrassing_. "You don't mind?"

Constance looked at him thoughtfully, chewing her lip as she considered something. Then her face cleared, and she shrugged. "There _are_ more important things in life."

"Quite," Aurelius said, stiffly.

Constance smiled. She suddenly looked very tired. "You're my best friend, Aurelius. That's what counts here."

He nodded. "There's a delicate balance between the personal and the political," he said, "and this might be too much."

"Do you think our parents made a mistake," she asked, thoughtfully, "letting us grow close this way?"

"No – not at all. We'll do well together, someday."

She waited, hearing the slight hesitation in his voice.

"But we can postpone certain things until then," he said, coming to yet another rapid decision and determined to get this said before he faltered again. "Whatever you want to do before – I will accept. Do you understand?"

Constance looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"

He did not have time for games. Not now, with what he had to do. "You know what I mean, Constance," he said, his hands tightening. Then, to ensure she got his meaning, he continued. "Do what you like. With _whoever_ you like. But – be discreet."

Constance exhaled slowly. "Do you know what you're saying? The Bridal Rites –"

"I wouldn't invoke them. I never _planned_ to," he said. Then, quite conscious of the irony, "I trust you to be careful."

Her eyes widened. "Aurelius, I –"

"You should go," he said quietly, wanting nothing more than to be left alone. To take the sting from his words, he tried a feeble joke. "Find some entertaining company before your bedtime."

"It will be all right, though? Between us?"

Aurelius smiled, injecting some lightness into his voice, although it was a conscious effort. "You're still a daft blonde bint, and I'm still me. Sod off, and leave the bottle here."

Constance looked at him searchingly, but she knew him well enough to know that things would carry on as before, and whatever secrets she had would go unmentioned. She reached out then, to hug him – it was a farewell and welcome both, Aurelius thought. Farewell to a little of whatever innocence they possessed. A welcoming into an adult world of compromise and bargaining. The world that they'd both been born to. He didn't feel regret, he told himself, because this was what they wanted.

In truth, what he'd just done – or rather, not done – would have met with scorn and derision by any right thinking Slytherin. And Constance knew it. What he'd offered her, however, through the turning of a blind eye, had bought her silence on that matter. The equilibrium had been restored – but it would never be the way it had been before any of this Riddle business had occurred. This balance had been paid for.

Moved by an impulse he didn't want to think about, he clasped her tightly, just for a moment. Then he kissed her cheek – and let her go.

*

Suddenly drained, she slid the stairwell door shut behind her, and leaned against it. She'd had so much energy, earlier, and she needed so much more! The night was young, as she very well knew, and she'd bought her freedom with the lie she'd told the others. She would be in the Rose Room before midnight. Even though she'd not accomplished all she'd set out to do that night, she had, in a way, succeeded. Aurelius had given her what she needed – after a fashion. _But how_, Constance asked herself, _was I to know he would react like that? _Her friend had been genuinely terrified, and she didn't think his fear was simply a response to her, but to women in general. To touch, to pleasure. He'd always been a bit of a cold fish – as Richard had pointed out many times, but still. She'd never thought it ran so deep.

"_There_ you are," Marcus said, startling her. She hadn't seen him approaching.

"Where's your wench?" she asked swiftly, to delay any questions about Aurelius. She'd keep the truth about their encounter to herself, secret even from Tom. She owed him that. "She hasn't gone already, has she?"

"Oh yes," her brother replied, looking remarkably smug. "I introduced her to a few people, got her disgustingly drunk – to the point where she would have done _anything_ –" 

"I don't believe you. McGonagall's not the type to get shitfaced."

"Not intentionally, I agree," Marcus smiled. "She had very little choice in the matter. It's amazing what a little alcohol did to her inhibitions."

"Then what happened? Why did she go?"

"I sobered her up, making sure she'd remember everything – how she threw herself at me, how I declined most respectfully and genteelly – and then I put her in one of our coaches and sent her home."

"And what was the point of that?" Constance said, exasperated. "You don't do yourself any favours!"

"The point, you fool, is that once she's had time to let the crushing embarrassment of her situation sink in, I can tell her how much I want it to be a beautiful thing when it does happen, and how I could never have taken advantage of a drunken woman – I want her _gagging_ for it by the time I'm through," he ended, satisfied. "I want compensation for all the effort I've had to put in."

"Such a gentleman," his sister said, dryly. "But it's good you got her out of the way. For tonight. If you're going to be there."

Marcus' grey eyes swept over her. "Why do you think I'm here now? It's certainly not for the company."

"Oh," Constance said, ignoring the insult. She could feel her stomach slowly knotting. "Where is he?"

"Where do you think?"

"Alone?"

Her brother shook his head impatiently. "Octavius is here too. He came back earlier. To help prepare."

__

How much preparation is necessary, she wondered uneasily, then shrugged away the thought. It wasn't worthy of her, this anxiety. The worst part of the night was over. What was to come – well, she'd been waiting for it for far too long. "Am I to go up now, then?"

Marcus nodded. "Come with me."

He led her to the Rose Room, without saying any more than was necessary. In truth, she was glad. Glad for the silence, the time to consider her own feelings carefully, to suppress any last minute nerves she might have. This was the time, this was the hour. As much as she could describe anything of what she was feeling then, Constance was gripped with what could only have been a growing sense of awe. She looked at her brother, walking beside her, and wondered. _How did he feel, when he was in my place?_ And then she squared her shoulders, raised her head a little higher. _I can't let them down. I have to be worthy of this_.

Without intending to, she quickened her pace to match her brother's. It was almost eleven. They would be ready, now, Tom and her uncle. They would be waiting. With whatever they'd prepared.

She found out soon enough, when they entered the Rose Room. At a gesture from their uncle, Marcus turned to the door to cast an Unbreakable Locking Charm. Constance, in the meantime, took a few steps into the room, taking in the sight before her. It was not quite what she had expected.

Not that she was sure as to what it was, exactly, that she _had_ expected. Something a little more impressive, perhaps, than a bed. Positioned in the exact centre of the room – presumably for her to lie on during the ritual. It wasn't particularly impressive, or awe-inspiring, for what was to be one of the most important experiences of her life.

And then she saw the vibrant gleam of Tom's eyes, and realized that nothing else mattered. 

He took her by the hand, with no word of greeting, and led her to where she'd have to lie. His hands were dry and cool, his grip firm. She noticed it then, the red glow in the room. A subtle red mist that had no warmth to it. The result of a protective spell – whatever magic went on in the rest of the manor would not affect them here. _Of course_, Constance thought, _this is dangerous enough as it is_. She felt the presence of magic already, tingling through her veins. A forewarning.

"Are you ready?" her uncle asked, as she lay back upon the bed. It was, thank gods, comfortable. 

She nodded, wordlessly, her gaze fixed on Tom. He looked tense. Although he'd done this before.

Unsmiling but with surprisingly gentle hands, her uncle rolled up her sleeves and stepped back, to the side of the bed. It was Tom who was to cut her, she guessed, and was proved right. He held a knife that looked terrifyingly sharp, a beautiful, bright blade that could kill. That could kill me, she thought, then forced herself to relax. She did not take her eyes off Tom, who held her arm tightly as he began to cut. She understood the lack of obvious ceremony then, as she felt the cold silver blade bite into her wrists. Only blood was needed, Malfoy blood, and Tom's presence. This was, after all, the purest form of magic. Whatever pain she might feel – and she did – could only serve to enhance the ritual. It was supposed to purify, after all. 

As the sheets on the bed turned scarlet – far too quickly for comfort – she saw with increasingly blurred vision the other three roll up their own sleeves. Scars that had, until then, been invisible, began to glow silver then red. Drops of blood rolled down Tom's arm – she couldn't see the others anymore – and with a swift movement he let them fall. To where her own bleeding wrists waited. Constance felt the mingling of blood like a physical blow, and then, as her family began to chant slowly, her sight left her and she felt herself slipping. Slipping somewhere else…

And, for a very long time, there was nothing but red.

Red roses. Red blood. And so much of it! More than she'd imagined, more than she'd thought she was capable of losing – and _gods_, it hurt. Magic ran like fire, like acid through her veins. She couldn't survive this – _nobody_ could survive this – it was too much. Magic this pure, this vital, wasn't kind – it ripped, burned, tore at the very essence of one's being with its ferocity – she could feel it burning years off her life. This could damage her permanently, it had to, pain like this would leave its mark. She'd promised herself she wouldn't scream, she wouldn't let herself do that, not in front of her uncle and brother, not in front of Tom – it was too much, though, she wanted to scream so badly, oh gods, she did, but the magic wouldn't let her. She felt it bubbling in her throat, choking her, she couldn't _breathe_ –

Dimly she felt the cold stone floor against her back, and took heart. It wouldn't last much longer. It couldn't. She heard Tom begin to speak – in a language she didn't understand, one she'd never heard before – a thin, whistling noise that dipped and slurred and seemed to float on the very air –

And, as the pain grew even more intense, she began to understand. 

Images welled up, from somewhere far below consciousness….

A red haired girl and a blond boy sat wrapped in sheets on a bed in a Slytherin dormitory. A woman with eyes like Tom's stared up at the sky, standing on the turret of a house in flames. A woman's eyes closed as a baby started to wail. A young boy curled up in a room she didn't recognize. Turquoise eyes blazed from under dark hair, and his mouth formed soundless words. _Tom_. A diary flew through the air, and fell into water. A white face, half human, with eyes of a deeper red than that all around her. The sound of a woman sobbing. Then Tom again, bright, glorious and nothing less than terrible as she saw him for the first time with full knowledge of who and what he was. The truth burned into her soul, so blindingly obvious she couldn't believe she had not seen it before. 

Tom Marvolo Riddle. The son of Styliane Zalaras. 

__

The Heir of Salazar Slytherin.

***********


	17. Inklings of Glory

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Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. With the exception of Tom Riddle, Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall Professor Binns and Armando Dippet, the characters belong to me. The descendants of the Malfoys, Snapes, Blacks and Potters belong to J K Rowling, but I'm sure you could figure that out for yourself. Chapter title nicked from Gormenghast.

****

Acknowledgements: Thanks to everyone who has reviewed this so far, oh and Faith Accompli for checking it over for Stupid Mistakes. If what's going on between Elspeth, Octavius and Quintus confuses anyone, please do read _Where Souls Do Couch On Flowers_ – although all will be revealed in later chapters of this piece. Oh, and if I've made any mistakes regarding Guernsey – put it down to pureblood indifference. I don't like history after 1600 anyway.

The Serpentine Chain Part One

Chapter Seventeen – Inklings of Glory

She still couldn't quite take it in. Oh, she'd known there was something special about him, she'd have to have been a complete fool not to - but _this_? Constance would never have guessed, never even have dared to entertain the merest suspicion that this was possible. The Heir - this was Slytherin's Heir! The living, breathing embodiment of the legend she'd grown up with, the subject of the games she'd played with Marcus when they were children - and he was real, he was here, in her lifetime - and her family were bound to him. It beggared belief. Tom Riddle. Halfblood, Parselmouth, Heir. What more besides?

"_Salazar_," she breathed, hardly daring to speak aloud.

"Not _quite_," the dark haired boy replied, holding out a cup of tea. He was smiling slightly, as though he knew exactly what was running through her head. And quite possibly, he did. "You've slept for twenty eight hours, by the way."

"Oh," she said, utterly unable to think of anything to say. She didn't feel capable of much right now, regardless of how long she'd slept. She didn't know what had happened after the ritual, didn't know what excuse had been given on her behalf for her long sleep - and didn't really care. All she could do was stare.

"I always wondered what it would take to render you speechless," he said, not unkindly.

Only half aware, she nodded slowly, still looking at him. Gods - it had been so obvious! The anagram, Salazar's blatant, almost arrogant, marking of his descendants. The Zalaras Riddle - Salazar's Riddle, and he was, truly. An idiot could have figured it out - had it not been so perfectly hidden. Concealed within her bloodline. And it was the colour of blood, of roses, that she remembered now. That was still present here, in this room.

"I'm not in my room," she said, startled as she looked around to find herself surrounded by flowers. She was still in the Rose Room – had she been here since that night? How had that been explained to her parents?

"It's taken care of," the dark haired boy answered. "Your brother saw to that."

She accepted that in silence, mulling it over for a minute. The glow from the Rose Window cast a soft light over the room, over Tom. She could almost sense the thrill of deep magic that had filled her only the other day.

"Who else knows?" she asked suddenly, her voice not entirely steady.

He laughed at that, and she realised with an unpleasant feeling of guilt that she'd shown him no deference whatsoever, demanding an answer with no consideration of his rank - and she still couldn't take it in. Couldn't believe that Tom, her penniless halfblood, was the Heir of Slytherin. She felt herself flushing. No doubt Marcus, after his awakening from blood, had responded with the proper decorum. _Well_, she thought, aware that there was humour in this situation, somewhere, _it's not everyday you get waited on by the Heir of Slytherin_.

"I don't know what to call you," Constance said lamely.

Tom Marvolo Riddle looked at her seriously then, dropping his amused expression as swiftly as he'd assumed it. "My father's name," he said carefully, "is not one I intend to keep. Nevertheless. It will have to do. For now."

She'd have to suppress her curiosity on that matter, that was obvious. He might tell her later. And she had so many other questions! 

"We are yours, then," she said formally. It went without saying, after the blood ritual – but speaking the words felt so natural, so _right_ that what else could she say in response to what had happened? Her family was his, _she_ was his – and, she realised, the Heir of Slytherin had even more right to her now that Aurelius had forsaken his claim. A small pang of guilt, there at the thought of Aurelius, but one that she could live with. It was a shame he had been caught up, however slightly, in her family's affairs – but if he _knew_, he would understand. He was Slytherin to the core. Loyalty to the ideal – that was everything. And Tom – well. He _was_ the ideal. In the greater scheme of things, the Heir's scheme of things, personal matters had to be put aside. 

She felt her pulse quicken at the thought of all that was now possible, and smiled. "_I_ am yours," she added, making her meaning quite clear.

He smiled, but did not move from where he stood, a few feet from the bed, the light from the window spilling over him, around him. He looked like a being from her childhood dreams, wreathed in power, magic, myth. He was who he was. 

Without hesitation, with no qualms, doubts, with nothing but the resolute certainty that this was right, this was what they both wanted, Constance pushed back the covers and stood up. The pink silk chemise her mother had given her for Christmas clung to her, revealing the contours of her body – _almost_, Constance thought, _almost as if mother had known I'd use it for this_. It rustled softly as she took the necessary few steps to Riddle, whispered kisses against her skin as she slipped it off to stand naked before him. The rise of desire in his eyes pleased her more than she could say – _this too is power_, she thought_, even the Heir feels it_.

Searching for confirmation in his face – finding it there – she reached for the buttons at the top of his shirt, began to unfasten them, slowly at first, then less so. When undone, she slipped her hand inside to touch his chest, to savour every inch before she could finally possess it completely, to feel the scar that he had not hidden from her, not now.

"Remember that," he said then, his voice slipping several tones lower, "later."

She nodded briefly, kissed him, slipped her hand further down. To sense him tense beneath her touch, an action that was becoming familiar but never ceased to enthral her. A minute – less – of her touching him so and his control finally broke. They hadn't touched since before the end of the winter term, and such restraint had taken its toll on the pair of them. She could feel the trembling of her own body, through desire, through excitement at this next step, as he pressed her backwards to the bed, pushed her down, bruising her lips with the strength of his kiss. Biting. She could taste blood, knew it for her own, bit back. Felt him push her legs apart, wondered how on earth he'd managed to take his trousers off without her noticing, stopped thinking and slid her hands down his back to press him against her.

"It will hurt," he warned her, drawing back for a minute, his voice rich with passion. For _her_.

She'd known that anyway, women's tales passed down, books, girls talking in the toilets, instinct. "Worth it," she said, "_please_."

Without reply, he moved closer to her, letting her hand guide him, pausing momentarily as he felt her flinch. It _did_ hurt, more than she'd expected, and she thought for a while it would be too much, but then he was truly inside her, moving slowly to ease her discomfort though she could see from the tautness of his face how he was struggling to control himself. An unbearable moment of almost panic, during which she came close, far too close to crying out. Forcing herself to relax, she moved tentatively beneath him, trying to accustom herself to this, and as she did so she felt him quicken his pace slightly as though to match her faulty rhythm, it didn't hurt quite as much now, _the next time will be better_ she thought, urging him on with her hands and voice until he gave a shuddering sigh, clung briefly to her, then let go.

They lay in silence for a while, the colours of blood and magic rippling over them, then,

"It will be better next time," he said, almost to himself.

"It was not so bad then," Constance said, and indeed, it could have been worse.

"It hurt?"

"A little. As expected."

Tom looked at her seriously then. "Twice in as many days. You _are_ mine, now."

She'd hurt for him twice, had bled for him twice. A trickle, nothing much this time. What they'd just shared then had been the physical form of the contract she'd signed in blood on Christmas Eve. That and something else, something between the two of them alone. She _was_ his, marked out in a way that Marcus – thankfully – had not been. 

"Irrevocably," she said, assenting with a smile.

"Almost," he replied, his hand playing absently in her hair. "Almost."

*

It wasn't that Quintus regretted what he'd done. The word regret would not have encompassed the uncertainties and doubts that had assailed him since he – since they – had done what they had done. In his _classroom_, of all places, although that wasn't really the issue. His act had seemed like a very good idea in the split second of time before he'd kissed Elspeth Haven, despite all the evidence pointing to the contrary. The Divination teacher's motives were complex. She and Octavius Malfoy had been, well, _after_ him for reasons Quintus could not fully comprehend. The fact that he was aware of this, had been aware of this when he'd had her didn't really reassure him. They, by virtue of who they were, had probably been aware of it too. And yet, Elspeth had done it anyway. Were the two ex-Slytherins then so confident that it didn't matter whether Quintus suspected them? And what, exactly, did he suspect them _of_? 

He'd harboured a fleeting desire to talk things over with Flavia, when she'd booked a room for them in an exclusive Hogsmeade hotel over New Year. And then he'd realised that that probably wasn't the best option. Spilling the beans about his dealings with Malfoy's mistress would be to tread on very thin ice. Whatever game Elspeth was up to, Quintus found it highly unlikely that it would benefit him or his family if the details were to become public knowledge. And then, of course, confessing to his own erstwhile partner that he'd been with somebody else _certainly_ wasn't the best of ideas. Even though Flavia made no secret of her unusually active love life, she did lean a little toward the possessive side with her men, as she called them.

She'd greeted him with a kiss on the cheek, flinging her cloak carelessly onto the back of her chair. "Darling, you look like shit," she'd said, bluntly, "they can't be working you hard over Christmas, surely?"

"Tactful as ever," Quintus replied, wryly amused. "And I'm just tired."

Flavia had sniffed. "Not too tired, I hope."

He couldn't help but smile at her single-mindedness. "Not too tired, don't worry. But how are things with you? You look – well."

An understatement, that, Flavia had been positively glowing. And it hadn't required a genius to work out why, as she'd waggled her fingers to display a ring that had a diamond almost the size of a dragon's egg on it. 

"Isn't it hideous?" she'd said proudly, in response to his raised eyebrow. "Absolutely disgusting – I don't know what kind of girl he thinks I am, but this really does give the wrong impression. I'm not tacky."

"Who gave it to you?" Quintus had asked, not especially surprised, certainly not bothered. Flavia and he had only ever been casual – and he doubted she'd end it because an extremely gullible and rich man had put a ring on her finger.

"You'll only know him by name," she'd replied, turning the ring so that the enormous stone faced inwards, "he's old, rich, and not from the most respectable of families. The _nouveau riche_, you know. I'm not his first wife – but I like to think I'm the prettiest and the youngest."

"Gold-digging tramp," the Potions Master said without rancour. It was comforting, to be able to relax into friendly, meaningless banter with Flavia.

"That I am," Flavia replied, with a grin that would have rivalled that of the Cheshire Cat. "Aren't you proud of me?"

"Horribly proud. And desolate. You're marrying a rich old man. What's left for me?"

Her grin, if possible, had widened even more. "A lifetime's servitude as my male mistress – or whatever the term is. But don't think I won't be keeping my eye on you, though," she'd warned. "I won't tolerate any _shenanigans_ on your part." She'd looked at him sharply as she'd spoken, obviously trying to determine whether he had been seeing someone else. "You haven't, have you?"

"Of course not," he'd lied blandly, without any pangs of guilt. It was appearance only that mattered to Flavia. She needed her ego pampering from time to time. "There's a distinct shortage of available females where I work, if you hadn't noticed."

"A distinct shortage of _attractive_ females, I'd say," she'd said tartly, "unless that old dumpling Bloom tickles your fancy."

Quintus had sighed in mock despair, knowing perfectly well that it was out of the question to get Flavia's perspective on Elspeth and Octavius. "I admit it," he'd said, "it's the smell of soil that really does it for me."

She'd wrinkled her nose, her suspicions allayed, then moved closer to kiss him. He'd welcomed it, as he always did, this taste of light relief for both of them. Uncomplicated release, and in the morning they had parted as they always did. Friends.

__

Which was all very well, Quintus thought now – somewhat unfairly – _but what am I supposed to do_? After what they'd done, Elspeth had gone swiftly and silently, before he'd regained sufficient composure to ask her what it meant, what would happen now, and she'd been elusive ever since. So had Octavius Malfoy. Not that Quintus really wanted to see him, of all people, at present. That would be _far_ too complicated. He hadn't wanted to ask anyone else where they were, if they were still in the castle. And then he'd seen Elspeth at breakfast, sitting at the end of the table next to the Head of Slytherin, in silence. He'd watched her, surreptitiously, noting how she avoided being drawn into the argument between Seraphim and Nadine de la Tour, how she picked at her food, and how she left the table early. He'd left as soon as he could, after that, in an attempt to catch up with her in the corridor – but she had disappeared.

It wasn't until the last few days of the Christmas holidays that he finally caught up with her, alone, down by the lake of all places. And then, only because he'd happened to glance out of a window and see a distinctive redheaded figure making its way down to the water. Taking two steps at a time, sometimes three, he ran down the main staircase, grateful for the fact that there were no students around, and headed out of the door.

__

So much for the casual approach, he thought, slowing his pace as he grew nearer to her. She looked around, hearing his footsteps, then, with no visible emotion, turned back to contemplate the still dark winter water. The set of her shoulders, however, seemed not _accepting_ exactly, but resigned.

"Looking for me?" she asked, staring at a point somewhere toward the middle of the lake.

"You're very hard to find, when you want to be," he said by way of answer.

"Yes," Elspeth replied, "I apologise for that, but it was necessary."

"I wanted to talk to you. You left very quickly – the other night."

She turned to face him then, and he could see her clearly. Fine lines around her eyes, a deep furrow in her forehead. "I thought you would. And I ought apologise for that, as well, but –"

"It was necessary," he finished for her. "I can understand why you left like that, though."

Elspeth looked momentarily surprised. "You can?"

"Of course," Quintus said, willing to feign ignorance if it meant that he could coax answers out of her. "You didn't want any – entanglements. I quite understand. Perhaps we should both just pretend that it never happened?"

He turned to go. _Five, four, three._

"Quintus. Wait." 

He did not turn back. _Two_.

"It wasn't that. And I don't want to pretend."

Careful to keep his face free from any telltale emotion, he swung round. "What about Octavius?" he demanded.

"Octavius has never before put any limits on my freedom," she said carefully. "Why should he do so now?"

"Why indeed," Quintus asked, "as you aren't married. What is it you _want_ from me, Elspeth?"

She looked up at him, almost nervously. "I like you," she said. "Is that so terrible?"

"Of course you do. I'm very likeable. And I suppose Octavius likes me too, and I suppose you've both been following me around since Halloween making suggestive remarks because I'm so _likeable_." He didn't bother trying to disguise his disbelief. There was, quite frankly, more to it than that.

"Octavius wouldn't mind screwing you, I admit," she said, and there was bitterness in her voice, "but he was sounding you out. Making sure you were –"

"Susceptible?" Quintus suggested. "Easy? Gullible?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"I may not now, nor ever have been a Slytherin," he said, "but you would do well to remember that I _am_ a Snape. And remember what that entails. Octavius should have known that."

She smiled brightly, suddenly, at that. "Had you been anything else, Quintus, you would have been quite unsuitable."

"So is it me you want, or my family?"

Elspeth looked at him guilelessly. "You, of course," she said. "Your family is already planning its union with the Malfoys, is it not?"

That was common knowledge, he supposed. His cousin and Constance Malfoy had practically been joined at the hip since they'd been babies. _But if Aurelius' concerns are correct_, he thought, suppressing a frown in case she picked up on it, _perhaps the Malfoys seek to make another overture towards us? Through me, somehow_. And perhaps not. Octavius and Elspeth might want him for purposes entirely their own, and nothing to do with family matters. He remembered her spider tattoo only too well. He was quite prepared to let them have him – as long as he was careful, and did not get too involved.

"It is," Quintus replied thoughtfully. 

"And so, you see," Elspeth continued, calmly, "the real question is this – do you want me?"

His eyebrow went up again. He couldn't _help_ it. "Well, yes," he said, and wasn't surprised to find it was actually true. "You must know that by now. But –"

A cool finger against his lips prevented him from speaking further. "Walk with me, then," she said, taking him by the hand, leading him up the lakeside path to where the small copse of trees would shelter them from prying eyes. There, she sank down into a thick clump of grass, pulling him down with her.

"Do you trust me, Quintus?"

"Truthfully? No."

"I suppose that is to be expected," Elspeth replied, frowning slightly. "But you have nothing to fear from me, you know. Nor Octavius, if it comes to that. Neither of us desire any misfortune to come to you or yours."

"And is that likely," he asked, "if I continue to associate with you?"

"I think not," she said. "Of course, I can't be sure."

Quintus smiled. "I thought you were the Seer?"

For some reason, she looked momentarily thrown. "Yes. Yes, I am," she said, as though thinking of something else. Then she recovered herself, smiling at him in a way that could not be misconstrued. "Come here."

And he did, and for a time there was nothing but the woman beside him, above him, the pale January sun casting its light over the pair of them, glinting in the unbound red hair that fell all around him. Afterwards she shifted so that she lay beside him on her stomach, fingers threading through blades of grass as though they were harpstrings. 

"My classroom, now by the lake…" Quintus said lazily, "will the Astronomy Tower be next, I wonder?"

She didn't answer, but continued to play with the grass, watching the movement of her fingers intently.

"Or the Owlery?"

"Not particularly pleasant," Elspeth said then, dragging herself away from the grass with a sigh to rearrange her clothing. "You'd be running a great hygiene risk. Come on. We'd better be getting back."

*

"You did _what_?" Richard asked, incredulity etched into every line of his face.

"I let her go," Aurelius answered simply. He was sick of talking about it, sick of thinking about it. He had gone over all the events of that night again, and again, and he preferred to put them from his mind completely. He wasn't entirely sure how he felt about it. And he didn't like that uncertainty. So as far as he was concerned, he would be happy to pretend that the whole Riddle incident had never happened. Ignorance was bliss, in this case. Except that Richard had been dying to know what had happened, and, seeing as how he'd been instrumental in setting the situation up, would _not_ desist in his relentless barrage of questions. Aurelius had fobbed him off for the remainder of the holidays with evasive answers in his letters, using family affairs as an excuse for his vagueness. It was true, of course, the Ministry had sent their inspectors out to Summerisle despite the insult to his father, to all of them, he'd spent the last days of the holidays being coldly courteous to them, answering extremely probing questions with a gleaming veneer of politeness. He hadn't really had the time to spare for long, detailed letters in any case, but his secrecy had only served to intensify Richard's curiosity. The brown haired boy had managed some restraint upon the Hogwarts Express – it wasn't the kind of thing to be talked about in public, after all, especially when Constance was only in the next carriage unleashing hell upon some unsuspecting third years – but when the Sorting Ceremony was over, after the feast, he'd dragged Aurelius up to the dormitory early, to unleash his version of the Spanish Inquisition.

"To _him_? Have you gone completely mad?"

"No," he answered patiently, "and I don't really want to talk about it anymore. It's done, that's all there is to it."

Richard looked at him in bewilderment. "And you don't _mind_?"

"Constance can do what she likes," Aurelius said flatly. "I'd rather it wasn't with _him_ – but that's irrelevant."

His friend's look of bewilderment intensified. "But I thought –"

"_It doesn't matter_." Aurelius was aware he sounded too tense, but it was rather a personal matter. "It keeps her happy, it prevents – trouble."

"What kind of trouble?" Richard's eyes were gleaming.

"Well. Tension. Resentment. That kind of thing. Constance and I are friends – _friends_," he continued firmly as Richard showed signs of wanting to interrupt. "If this keeps her happy until it fizzles out, that's fine."

"You think that by letting the person you're supposed to marry in a few years sleep with someone else now, you're preventing resentment and tension?" Richard asked, slowly.

"_Yes_." Aurelius was getting impatient. "She won't hold it against me, will she, like she would if I'd put my foot down, if I'd –"

"If you'd what?" A pause. "Oh, Aurelius, you _idiot_! The whole point in my staying sober for half that bloody night was that so you _could_ – and you _didn't_?"

"No. I didn't. And I don't want to talk about it."

Richard was blessedly quiet. For a moment, Aurelius thought his friend had finally learned a little discretion – and then he spoke again. "Are you sure you won't regret this, later?"

"Why would I?"

"Because you're you," Richard said simply. "I couldn't care less what my delightful gaggle of girls get up to behind my back, because I'm usually doing the same thing – but you're different. Even if you don't care what Constance gets up to now, you might later. You're very _proud_."

"No more or less than anyone else like me," Aurelius said crossly. "I have a lot to be proud of."

Richard shook his head. "Not that kind of pride," he said, almost gently. "I just happen to think it'll eat you up, later."

"Well, thank you for your obvious confidence in my decision making abilities. I happen to think I did the right thing. And it was _my_ decision to make, not yours, and you don't know anything about it," Aurelius ended, knowing perfectly well that he sounded quite petty. And not really caring, either. He had more important things on his mind, he told himself, than Constance Malfoy. A new term had begun, and he had more than just schoolwork to concentrate on. His father had made a decision; it was up to Aurelius to carry it out.

*

Christopher Cale wasn't entirely sure how to broach the subject with his friend. It could, if he wasn't careful, cause real offence. After all, wasn't he implying that Quintus could not defend himself from Malfoy's – or the Divination teacher's – attempts to use him as a pawn? It wouldn't be flattering to anyone's ego, especially not one whose family thrived upon the ability to scheme, outmanoeuvre, outwit any other. But if what Matthew Seraphim had suggested was correct, then Quintus could be about to fall victim to his own curiosity. _Watch and wait_, Matthew had said, but that Christopher would not, could not do.

And yet, that was all he did for the first cold weeks of the January term. He waited. He watched, in a manner more circumspect than he would have believed himself capable. At mealtimes, when Quintus' gaze lingered on Elspeth perhaps a fraction of a second too long before glancing pensively at Octavius for a moment. He watched as Quintus left the staff-room at times shortly before the DADA teacher entered. He watched, but he did not say anything to Matthew, and he did not dare say anything to Quintus yet.

He didn't know what he was supposed to do. But he knew he ought to do something. Before it was too late.

*

The first few weeks back at Hogwarts went very quickly for Constance. Her days, which previously had been filled with as little work as possible, became so full that she found herself sleeping for only five hours, sometimes less. She'd get up early, to start on whatever homework she could, eat breakfast, and rush to classes. Lunchtimes would have to be spent in the library, concentrating on whatever work she'd been set that day – or, if by some miracle she was ahead of schedule, learning new hexes and countercurses for the training sessions she had late at night in the Zalaras Wing. She was immensely grateful that she'd worked on her History of Magic assignment assiduously over the Christmas holidays, and, able to hand it in a few days early, she'd managed to gain a little extra time to devote to her other pursuits. Consequently, the first few hours of the evening were her own – although it was quite obvious that she had to maintain as normal a façade as possible, and that involved spending time with Richard and Aurelius. 

Which was less awkward than it might have been. Aurelius, for all he showed, may very well have wiped the memory of what had passed – or rather had _not_ passed – between them that Christmas Eve from his mind. He was the same as he always had been. And she wasn't sure whether he'd told Richard, or how much he'd told Richard – save that the brown haired boy acted as a skilful diversion whenever the conversation wandered perilously close to Riddle. So skilful, in fact, Constance couldn't figure out whether Richard had been fully informed, or was just guessing. Or playing the idiot, as usual. Tom, of course, had more than enough sense to steer clear of her during the evenings. And most of the daytime, as well. 

Later on into the evenings, they'd all turn their minds to work, Constance claiming that her New Year's Resolution had been to put more effort into schoolwork. 

"Well, you could hardly put _less_ in," Aurelius stated, quite unfairly Constance thought. "You and Richard are as lazy as each other."

"Ah, but unlike her I don't have to put any effort in. She'll always be thick, however hard she tries," Richard claimed, grinning. "My natural genius shines through in everything I do."

"Including Divination?" Constance demanded, not prepared to let that one slip if she could help it. "Didn't you get a D for your last essay? What was shining through then?"

"General indifference," Richard replied, casually. "I really did prefer it when we had Lockhart, y'know. At least he didn't _force _us to work. I'm a free spirit, I won't be tamed by any woman."

"No woman would have you," Constance retorted, although it was a pretty pathetic comeback considering Richard was linked with Teresa Symmonds, for starters, and about half of Ravenclaw now. Including, funnily enough, _Susanna Lessops_. It didn't seem quite the moment to mention the supposed bet now, though, bearing in mind its subject. "Unless she was really desperate."

"You should be awed by my nobility then," Richard said seriously. "I am the saviour of damsels in distress. Verily, they flock to me. Can _I_ help it if they want me to save them from their despair, their woe, their general stupidity?"

"Oh, you hero," Constance said, laughing. "I'm sure we've had a similar conversation before, you would-be Gryffindor."

"_Will_ you two shut up?" Aurelius demanded abruptly. "I have to write another two feet about the Phrygian mode, and I've already copied down "_I'm a free spirit_" by mistake because I was listening to you. So just be quiet."

"Well that's us told," Richard sounded flattered. "Are we just too devilishly distracting for you, my son?"

"You were," Aurelius replied. "_Now_ you're just irritating."

"I'm finished anyway," Constance said smugly. "I'm going to bed."

"Finished? Now?"

"Some of us didn't stuff ourselves senseless at dinner," she said tartly, "and did work instead."

Richard snorted. "I give you another fortnight, maybe less, before you crack and turn back into the old slothbucket we all used to know and love."

She made an extremely rude gesture as she left, but she was smiling. Another couple of hours reading in bed, curtains drawn for privacy, until she was sure everyone else was asleep. Slipping away unnoticed, away down to the Zalaras Wing had become such a familiar part of her life that she did not regret the hours of missed sleep as once she would. It was only during the darkest hours of the night that she and Tom could be together, as Marcus left them alone – either to seek his own sport elsewhere or to sleep. But even then they never had much time, having to return to their respective dormitories before long. In short, she was the busiest she had ever been. 

__

Slothbucket indeed. She was putting more effort into her schoolwork now, as Tom had advised. Had she not, she'd surely have suffered from all her extracurricular activities – although perhaps not in Defence against the Dark Arts. Her brother's training had dramatically improved her own skills. Even though she had no chance whatsoever of trying them out in the real world, at least, not yet. She'd been warned – and could quite easily have guessed for herself – that certain of the curses she'd been taught _wouldn't_ go down very well if she started using them on other students. She hadn't asked, and felt sure that she would not have been told at this point, why she had been taught them in the first place.

*

Valerius Snape's letter was uncompromisingly defiant. His words might as well have been etched onto the parchment with white fire, Quintus thought, sensing the fury behind the ice-cold text. It had not been delivered by owl, such was the content, but by house-elf. Courtesy of Floo Powder, of course. Straight from Fizzy's hand to Quintus' own.

Reading it, Quintus could understand the need for such direct contact. It was exceedingly unlikely that the Ministry were monitoring his family's post – they hadn't found anything amiss in the inspection, Aurelius had said, and they'd been most apologetic afterwards – but no chances could be taken with this letter. It was starkly unambiguous.

__

Following the Ministry's breach of oath-binding contract with our family, Valerius had written, _we are no longer to consider ourselves bound. This Aurelius already knows. Being at liberty now to do what is most profitable for the family, I trust you will not fail to assess any opportunities that may present themselves to you. Assess, but do not commit either yourself or your family until the current climate casts a more European light upon such matters. I leave it to you to share this with Aurelius._

I need hardly remind you to dispose of this letter in the usual fashion.

A clear example of the dangerous nature of the letter, that Valerius would remind him to burn the letter in the way that he had been doing with all correspondence since he'd been a boy.It could almost be regarded as treasonous, Quintus supposed as he watched the parchment curl and turn to flaming ash, the rather less than subtle message. _Do not reject any offers you may have from Grindelwald supporters outright. If war comes to England, we may well accept._ Not that issues such as treason really mattered. Family first, then country, the way it always had been. Admittedly, such lack of unity amongst the powerful families had been a major factor in the large-scale invasions of the first millennium – and was quite likely to work out in Grindelwald's favour in this one. But it could work out quite profitably, for the right family, at the right time. Not just financially. That was almost a secondary issue. Prestige, power, status. Money helped. But it wasn't everything, especially when you already had it in abundance.

In a way, Quintus thought, his uncle had just given him the go-ahead for what he'd already been doing. Not that Octavius Malfoy, or Elspeth Haven were necessarily Grindelwald supporters, but if they were then he had already begun to assess the opportunity they presented. Perhaps not in the most formal of ways, true, but he was playing their game with them whilst remaining fully aware of the intricate web within which he could so easily become entangled.

But then, he thought, there was something else, something his family would not consider and would not think it fitting of him to do so either. Nevertheless, his mind was drawn inevitably to John Cale – Christopher's brother, killed by Grindelwald's armies in Europe. Killed horribly, too. His friend would, quite rightly, consider it a personal betrayal if he were to discover that the Snape family had cast their loyalties in with Grindelwald. Their friendship would be irrevocably destroyed. It wasn't in the best of shapes now, really, he'd not seen as much of Christopher since the incident at the Three Broomsticks as he had used to. And when they _had_ had chances to talk, it had been as though Christopher's mind was on something else entirely. His friend was certainly less forthcoming than usual.

But really, what choice did he have?

Still preoccupied with thoughts of this nature, he headed out of his rooms and down the stairwell to the staff-room. He had House matters to discuss with Lydia Grey, something about a first year Ravenclaw who was being bullied by her older sister. Something that the Head of Ravenclaw could quite easily have dealt with herself, were it not for the fact that the older sister was in Slytherin and perhaps Quintus could get his cousin to exert a restraining influence? He allowed himself a brief flicker of amusement at the thought that it might actually be a refreshing change to concentrate on school matters for once. It _was_ what he was getting paid to do. With all their extracurricular plotting and scheming, of course, it was a wonder half the teachers managed to get any work done at all.

It was not Lydia Grey waiting for him in the staff-room, however, but Christopher. One of the two people it had become very, very awkward to be around these days. The other, thankfully, he'd managed to avoid ever since he'd first slept with Elspeth Haven. 

"Hello," he said, covering his unease and resolving not to think of the letter. "I thought Lydia was supposed to be here?"

"Gone," Christopher said, looking at him curiously. "She said you were half an hour late, and she'd have to speak to you later because _some_ of us have classes to teach."

"I've always had these two periods free," Quintus said mildly, "so have you. She helped fix the timetable, so she can stop complaining. And I'm not late, either, she said half three, and half three it is."

Christopher almost smiled. "_You_ tell her that, then."

"…Maybe I won't," Quintus said. Lydia was, most of the time, a very calm, benign sort of person. She just happened to have a very unpredictable temper. "So, what brings you here all alone?"

"The chance that I might bump into you, as a matter of fact," his friend said. "You've been remarkably busy lately – well, I assume that's why you've not been around much."

"Well," Quintus replied smoothly, "we're all busy, aren't we? Except now, obviously, otherwise we wouldn't both be here now. It is good to get a few hours to myself though – did you want to talk to me?"

"Oh. Yes." Christopher produced a teapot and two teacups. "Care for one?"

Quintus nodded as his friend filled a cup, waited for him to continue.

"Well," Christopher continued, obviously ill at ease. "I just wanted a chance to catch up, really. I haven't seen much of you these past few weeks. So. How are you?"

The Potions Master eyed his friend sceptically. "I can always tell when you're making up excuses," he said kindly. "Because you're never very good at it."

"I'm glad you're not _my_ teacher," Christopher muttered, shifting in his seat. "Too observant for your own good."

"So what is it really?" Quintus asked. "Open your mouth, words come out, it's called talking. Give it a try."

"Don't be flippant," his friend said. "This is – a little difficult. Please just listen, and don't be offended."

Acutely aware that this might turn into a tricky situation, even more aware of what his father had decreed for his family, Quintus was silent, waiting.

"It's about Octavius Malfoy," Christopher said, almost apologetically. "And Elspeth Haven."

The Chantwork teacher paused then, waiting for a response. Quintus forced himself to remain entirely still, putting an expression of polite puzzlement on his face_. He can't possibly know about that. Not the part that matters_.

Playing ignorant had worked for him before. It could do so now. "You mean – what happened in the Three Broomsticks? With Seraphim?"

"Not exactly, no," Christopher said, flushing. "Although – that could be a part of it."

"Then what?"

"They seem very interested in you."

__

Shit. "Before Christmas, maybe," Quintus said without much interest. "But I have a hard enough time keeping up with the friends I already have – as you've noticed – I really haven't the heart to make things more difficult for myself by chasing after new ones as well. What's the problem?"

"It's hard to say – I don't want to break someone else's confidence – but the thing is, I just don't think it's _safe_ to be too close to Malfoy."

Quintus almost smiled then, from sheer relief. Christopher _didn't _know. "Unsafe for me? Or unsafe in general?"

"For you," Christopher answered. "I don't know anything about Elspeth, but from what I've been told Malfoy _isn't_ to be trusted. He looks out for himself whatever the consequences to others – hires himself out to the highest bidder –"

"You think he could be working for Grindelwald?" Quintus said, as if the idea had genuinely never occurred to him. 

"Not just that," his friend said tentatively. "We – I," he corrected himself hastily, and Quintus pretended not to notice the slip, "think he might be trying to use you, somehow, as some kind of pawn. To do what he can't – if he thought he was being watched, for instance."

An interesting idea, and one which he really should have considered earlier. That vexed him, and there was a degree of irritation in his voice as he replied. "I'll take care of myself, don't worry."

"You're cross," Christopher said. "I thought you would be. I didn't mean to be offensive, I know you're capable of looking out for yourself. I just had to say something, in case you –"

"Hadn't noticed?"

"In case your curiosity got the better of you," his friend said instead, resignedly. "I _know _what you're like."

"Christopher, my family – and Malfoy's, too – have been playing games like this for centuries. I know how to behave." A mild rebuke there – a reminder that Muggleborns (most of them, anyway) just wouldn't understand the complex threads that wove the old wizarding families together.

"Can't you just cut ties with him completely?" Christopher pleaded, unintentionally proving Quintus right.

"That would be impossible, I'm afraid," Quintus said, trying to sound regretful. And it was out of the question – his uncle would not be happy if he did such a thing. And neither would Octavius Malfoy, and by extension, the rest of the Malfoy clan. He was supposed to strengthen the alliance between the two families until the day Aurelius got himself married. "I have my cousin's interests to protect too."

"Of course you do," Christopher said, heavily. "Blood sticks together, doesn't it?" 

"You _do_ know I don't agree with what Octavius says about Seraphim? About –"

"Mudbloods like me? Of course," but there was no real belief in his voice.

"Have I _ever_ given you cause to think that I do?"

Christopher looked at him. "Maybe not intentionally – but it doesn't really matter, does it? Regardless of my blood, you'd put your family first. Before everything."

"That's the way it _is_," Quintus protested, wounded by the implication that he'd treated Christopher the way Octavius treated Seraphim. Disturbed by the fact that he knew what his friend had said was true – he would put his family first, before everything else. Before Christopher, before Christopher's dead brother. The Chantwork teacher could _never _know about that. Could never know that if Octavius was working for Grindelwald, the Snape family may very well accept whatever offer he made them. Through Quintus. 

And the Potions Master could think of nothing else to say.

"I have to go," Christopher said then, tipping the contents of his teacup into a plant pot. "I'll see you around, I suppose."

What could Quintus say to change anything? Things were the way they were. Even if he were to follow Christopher from the room, to argue his way back to one or the other's rooms – it wouldn't change anything. He'd still be on the other side, with Octavius, Elspeth, and his family. It _was_ a whole different world – and it seemed that there just wasn't a place for Christopher.

But really, what choice did he have?

*

Aurelius was thinking about the Ministry, about Grindelwald, about the Beauxbatons students, and about his father. They were all intermingled, even before Quintus had passed on the contents of the letter. What his father had written was only further confirmation of what he'd already been told before the inspection of his family's business had begun. Nothing angered his father more than a broken oath – especially when his family had faithfully upheld the oath in question. Yet it would not do to let the Ministry know this now that it was too late – for the perfect revenge, the Snape family had to appear irreproachable both now and in the future. There could be no signs of real affront at the Ministry's blatant lack of respect for honour, tradition, the family word – but complete acquiescence could perhaps appear somewhat suspect.

Although Aurelius was of the opinion that if wizarding oaths mattered so little to the Ministry, they wouldn't expect them to matter to anyone else. That, as his father had informed him, was down to the influence of pseudo-wizards within the Ministry. 

"They can't be _blamed_ for it, I suppose," Valerius Snape had said bitingly, "it's the fault of the people who voted for the Muggleborn Acceptance Acts, with no thought for the consequences. These Muggleborns are working in a world that is entirely unfamiliar to them, alienating those who would otherwise have been loyal."

"Like us," Aurelius commented. 

"Quite," his father replied. "Their presence within the Ministry undermines the very structure of wizarding society. They should never have been allowed access to positions of power – their _ignorance _is what will, if unchecked, destroy us."

"They might be taught to understand," Aurelius began; mostly for the sake of debate, then wished he hadn't as he saw the look on his father's face.

"You sound like your cousin," Valerius said disapprovingly. "And I will say to you what I said to him years ago. Muggleborns might be taught to appreciate the complexities of blood, its power – but they will never understand it instinctively, _intuitively_. They don't have it in them. It's not enough to speak the language, so to speak; you have to be able to feel it. Live it."

Aurelius had nodded. "I overheard several Muggleborn students talking, once," he offered. "Some of them don't even see why they should learn our ways. They seemed adamant about it – claiming it was _us_ who should adapt."

"Influenced by the more radical Muggleborn politicians, no doubt," Valerius said, lip twitching in disgust. "Even the compromise offered by wizards - who ought to have known better - does not satisfy them."

"Is it likely that Copernicus was influenced by them, when he authorised the inspection of our premises?"

"Possibly. Not directly, however. There are those within the Ministry who have no real interest in the Muggle issue – but who would like to see the power of the great families checked. Jealousy is no doubt the main reason why certain wizards clamour for Muggleborn rights."

Aurelius had digested this in silence for a minute. "The inspectors arrive tomorrow, don't they?"

His father gave him a brief nod. "For the main, you'll be dealing with them. It's well within your capabilities."

And it had been. The inspectors had been scrupulously polite men who were evidently well aware that what they were doing was offensive. Though they were duty bound to obey the orders the Ministry had given them, they did not ask to see Valerius Snape but accepted Aurelius as his representative. They accepted the rebuke implicit in Valerius' delegation of this matter to his son, accepted the intended impression that although Valerius might be _personally_ offended, his family would do the right thing by everyone and submit to the Ministry's wishes.

Their inspection was, nevertheless, rigorous. They had questioned him relentlessly at times as they examined various accounts and orders from certain companies. Aurelius had been very grateful for his father's rigid training, for the almost obsessive attention to detail he'd been taught. None of his answers could have been faulted. There had been nothing for the inspectors to find.

The conversation he'd had with his father after they'd left had been on the night before he was due to leave for school. Despite the inspection, his mind had automatically - and unwillingly – turned to Constance. He hadn't seen her since Christmas Eve, and, although he'd almost welcomed the inspection as a chance to pretend she didn't exist, he had been a little concerned as to how things would be when they next met. And as to how he'd explain it to Richard. His friend wasn't as dim as he liked to make out – he'd undoubtedly notice that things hadn't changed between Constance and Tom. He'd probably notice that things had in fact intensified. If Constance wasn't discreet – and Aurelius really doubted that she was capable of it.

Valerius Snape, oblivious to Aurelius' other concerns, had quickly drawn his son's attention back to the matter in hand. He'd given him a rundown of the direction he intended the family to take – Aurelius, remembering his mother's quiet introduction of the Beauxbatons element, recounted that conversation to his father.

"Your mother is sometimes more perceptive than I give her credit for," his father had said, with a ghost of a smile. "Had our situation been different, I would indeed have advised you to steer clear of such possibilities. As it is…"

"I should consider every option with an open mind?" Aurelius had finished. "Not overtly, obviously."

"Exactly," Valerius Snape had agreed. "Your cousin is to do the same. But remember this, Aurelius, you are to commit yourself to nothing until_ I_ give you consent. Appear – approachable. That is all." 

"I understand," Aurelius said. He'd ignored the memory of Constance's voice, had tried to put it out of his mind completely although his talk with Richard on the first night back hadn't helped. _You're not the most approachable of people_. She had been referring to something else, he told himself, but still, his father's choice of words had been less than comforting.

There hadn't been much he could do, initially, to appear friendly and open to _all_ of the Beauxbatons students. There were quite a few of them in his House alone, it would take time to transform himself from a casual acquaintance into something else. He had decided to begin with the ones in his year – Camille, Remy and Jacques – that being certainly the easiest option. All it required was for him – with the unwitting Richard in tow – to take advantage of Constance's sudden desire to _work _at lunchtimes and so forth. Whether the blonde girl knew it or not, her trips to the library provided Aurelius with the perfect chance to strike up conversations with Remy, Camille or Jacques through the Slytherins who seemed to have befriended them the term before. All completely innocent, of course, for despite Aurelius' subtlest prompting the subject of Grindelwald rarely came up - until one breakfast-time in the first few weeks of February when _everyone_ was talking about it.

It was easy to see why.

"_GUERNSEY'S SECOND SURRENDER_," cried the Daily Prophet, _"GRINDELWALD GAINS CONTROL OF BRITISH WIZARDING COMMUNITY_! _MINISTRY FEARS FULL-SCALE INVASION_!"

"Oh my goodness," Teresa Symmonds said, reading over Richard's shoulder, "that's getting a bit too close to home, isn't it? Why on earth weren't we prepared?"

"The Muggle population of Guernsey's been in German hands for a while," Tom Riddle informed her calmly, "but the Ministry didn't do anything because _Grindelwald_ hadn't shown any interest in it. It has no interest in fighting the Muggles' war for them."

"Odd, though," Richard interjected thoughtfully, "the pattern so far has been the other way round – Grindelwald's lot batter the wizards into submitting, and that makes it so much easier for the advance of the German army."

"That was true in _Germany_," Riddle said dubiously, "but the two armies have been working symbiotically across Europe –"

"Well, that's all very interesting," Simon Harper interrupted, "but none of you lot have read what's at the bottom, have you?"

They hadn't. For a few minutes, there was silence amongst the group as they scanned the rest of the paper.

"Oh _my_," Constance said, evidently at a loss for words.

"Oh shit," Richard said, frowning. "Things are getting serious, aren't they? Thirteen of _our_ wizards killed on the south coast – and only two prisoners taken. Wonder what they'll have to say for themselves?"

"I doubt they'll say anything that we couldn't surmise from these reports," Tom replied, "It's unlikely that Grindelwald is in the habit of confiding his plans to the average foot soldier."

"I'd say it was pretty obvious what's going on," Aurelius said directly to Richard, steadfastly not looking at Riddle. "They're going to try and pick away at our defences, and whilst that's going on, they've undoubtedly got their spies within our world proper – eating away at us from the inside. That'll be why the Ministry's coming down so hard on certain families."

"At times like this, they're desperate for support," Richard agreed. 

"No doubt," Remy Flaubert said, speaking for the first time, "if you are going to send _proper_ troops back into my country to help the Resistance, you will find yourselves quite vulnerable to attack from within."

"There's no mention of sending troops anywhere," Constance said then, still examining the paper. "Just stuff about manning our coastlines properly – which you'd think they'd have been doing _anyway_."

Remy shrugged casually. "It's only a matter of time before your Ministry takes some _real_ action," he said. "Now that they feel themselves truly, _personally_, threatened by Grindelwald."

"You mean they didn't feel threatened when persons unknown bumped off Flay?" Aurelius asked sceptically. That inspection had seemed to him to be a sign of a pretty threatened Ministry, not knowing where to strike. And striking in quite the wrong place, when they _did_ decide to act.

"Oh, I'm sure they did," Remy agreed hastily, "but you can see that their efforts were concentrated, in the main, on dealing with potential fifth columnists. Now Grindelwald has stepped up his attack, they won't have any choice but to respond directly."

"And you know all this _how_?" Teresa demanded. She looked a little bewildered. 

'It's not all that hard to read between the lines," Remy answered politely. "Especially when you've seen it all happen before."

"I suppose so." Teresa looked slightly abashed. "Sorry."

"What _exactly _has happened to Beauxbatons, then?" Aurelius asked, thoughtfully. "We know it's been taken over – was it too dangerous for you to have stayed in France?"

"Not that you're not welcome here, of course," Richard added swiftly. "Aurelius can be awfully rude at times – however hard I try to teach him manners."

Remy smiled, though his eyes lingered on Aurelius. "Mostly dangerous for the Jews amongst us," he said politely. "Quite a few of them left for America, deeming it safer. But Semitic or not – the majority of parents didn't want their children taught at one of Grindelwald's Learning Centres."

"The children of the collaborators, of course, are still there," Camille interjected. "But then, it's not Grindelwald _they_ have to fear now – it's the French Resistance. "

"Who might wish to make an example out of them," Remy explained. "Only last month, there was news of a married couple – French, but they had helped secure our school for Grindelwald after the attack – whose children found them dead. Poisoned, apparently, but nobody is sure."

"Shit happens," murmured Camille, smiling slightly at Aurelius. "As you English say."

Aurelius frowned to himself as the conversation turned elsewhere. The questions he wanted answering without the inconvenience of actually having to _ask _would not be answered in a group discussion. It was too public, too obvious. However, he did feel that he was making _some_ form of progress with the French students - inasmuch as he could tell that he would get more of worth out of Remy and Camille if he could speak with them separately. He knew very little about Camille – other than she seemed to have adapted perfectly to Slytherin house. Her behaviour after that incident in the corridors with the Gryffindors – months ago – proved that. And she had brought up the subject of French collaborators. It was quite likely that some had come to Britain themselves, fearing for their safety – or sent their children instead. As for the girl's smile just then – well. He wasn't entirely sure what it indicated. But perhaps he would start with her.

*

It was well into February when Marcus told her that he wouldn't be giving her any more lessons in the Zalaras Wing.

"Am I as good as _you_ are, then?" Constance demanded, knowing that she was certainly close, if not there already. "Why are you stopping?"

"Because he asked me to," her brother replied. "He's going to be working with you now."

Her old curiosity about Tom Riddle's duelling skills was instantly revived. "What's he like?" she asked eagerly. "I've never seen him so much as raise his wand at someone."

"There's a reason for that," Marcus replied, "you should know it without having to ask. And he's not _good_. He is far more than that."

"He's more than good at most things," Constance said, realising that _of course_ Tom couldn't go about hexing people in corridors in the way that most of her friends did. He was determined to maintain his unblemished academic record for starters. She knew he was aiming for the position of Head Boy next year and was more than likely to get it – but quite apart from such considerations, he was almost fanatical when it came to Albus Dumbledore.

"He dislikes me," he'd confided in her, one night after Marcus had left the Zalaras Wing to seek his bed, "and although I dislike him too, I have given him no outright reason to dislike me. So either he's taken against a tragically impoverished yet exceptionally charming model student – which would not, I think, be in keeping with the image he chooses to present to the world – or there is another reason."

"What?" she asked. "It can't be because you're Slytherin. He's always been quite amicable to me."

"I can only guess that he suspects," Tom had said thoughtfully.

"That you're the Heir?" Constance asked, shocked. "He _can't_."

"No, not that. But I do believe he suspects that I am not what I am."

She must have looked confused, because he'd continued quite impatiently. "He thinks I'm up to something. Which I am, with you in here for starters – but he has no reason to think this because I have been very careful not to furnish him with one. Which makes me very anxious to appear spotless before him, especially now. I do not wish to draw adverse attention to myself."

"This is different," Marcus said, drawing her attention back to the present. "He's very good, verging on brilliant at times academically, that's common knowledge. But Constance, you should see him fight, you _will _see him fight – it's like a dance, something in his very being –"

"Well of course it is," she said prosaically, wondering at her usually pragmatic brother's sudden flight of fancy. "He's a wizard, isn't he?"

Marcus shook his head. "I can't explain it. You'll see for yourself, tomorrow." 

Constance had always found it very hard to be patient, especially when she was intrigued and wanted answers. Or, in this case, wanted to see what Marcus had seen and she had not. An aspect of Tom that she had never seen before. Although her day was as full as ever, and technically she had no time to think about the promise of the night, the hours seemed to stretch out intolerably.

"I _really_ can't be bothered with this," she said to Richard irritably, during a History of Magic lesson in which Professor Binns seemed to be trying deliberately to exceed his own standards of dullness. "You'd think Dippet would've sacked the boring git by now, wouldn't you?"

"Aren't _we_ bitter today," Richard said, not taking his eyes off the movement of his quill as he sketched a lady with a very large bosom being attacked by a raging dragon. "What's the matter? All that hard work not paid off yet?"

"Oh, shut up," she said crossly. "I hope to high heaven he dies soon, I really do. And I hope I get to _watch_," she added. "Might make up for all the times I've wanted to off myself whilst listening to this drivel."

"But you've never listened to his drivel before," Richard pointed out. "Free period, this, make the most of it."

"I can't exactly walk out, can I?" she asked snappily, having successfully worked herself up into a state of complete frustration. "Oh, what's the _point_!?"

The rest of the day was no better. Perhaps it was fatigue that made her so irritable – in truth, she had been feeling tired for quite a while thanks to her hectic schedule. Her tiredness combined with her natural impatience succeeded in making Constance an exceptionally unpleasant person until evening. Then, at least, she was able to go up to her room, read through a few of her notes in preparation for later, and try to catch a few hours sleep so that she would be refreshed when the time came for her to duel the Heir of Slytherin. 

She was roused some time past midnight, by the Magiclock she'd been given for her eleventh birthday (and had promptly shoved in a box – out of sight, out of mind, until she'd finally felt it might come in useful). Slipped out of her dormitory, after casting a light Sleeping Spell on the others to reassure herself. Found Marcus reading alone in the common room, exchanged nods with him, slipped quietly out and along the necessary corridors, up winding stairways until she came at last to the Zalaras Wing.

He was already there, sitting at the desk that looked almost ready to collapse under the weight of books he'd piled onto it. As ever, his diary was close to hand.

"I always meant to ask you about that," Constance said, looking at the blank pages. "It's quite an achievement, to say the least."

The corner of Tom's mouth crooked upwards. "Technically demanding, perhaps, but in theory quite simple - and a much more _efficient_ way of preserving the really important memories," he said, smiling for some reason evidently known only to him. Then, shaking his head slightly as though to clear it, he continued, "but I shall tell you all about that at some other time. We have something more pressing to deal with."

"Yes," Constance agreed excitedly, "Marcus told me you would be taking over my – training." She hesitated on the last word, but could think of nothing else that would be appropriate for what went on in this room after dark.

"Did he say why?" asked the boy she'd thought of for so long as the half-blood – although in his case, that one half was something more than special.

"No-o," she said slowly, wondering if Tom was going to tell her the purpose behind the training sessions she and Marcus had been undergoing. Wondering if it would be too, well, _rude_ to ask Tom herself. "Well – he said you'd asked him to. Frankly, he seemed more keen on singing your praises," she added truthfully. "Apparently your duelling skills are nothing short of spectacular."

Tom Riddle almost smiled properly then. "Flattery will get you just about everywhere," he remarked, leaving the table to head towards the practice room. "Even answers to a number of questions, after we've finished here."

"Really?" she asked unnecessarily, as she followed him into the padded room. This was progress, if she was finally to ascend to the same level as her brother. She and Tom had their own understanding, obviously one which Marcus didn't share – but if Tom was finally going to share with her the things he must have shared with her brother, that was really something. Better than sex, almost. "Well – don't hold back now, then, I may be small but I can be quite tough."

He grinned at that, eyes sparkling. "I don't doubt it," he answered, then, without any warning, before she had time to think, "_Expelliarmus_!"

Her wand flew out of her hand, to be caught in mid-air by Tom. "So much for the courtesies," he said, smirking as she took a few involuntary steps backwards. "An unfriendly wizard isn't going to waste time bowing to you, remember that."

"I will," she said, disgruntled, "if I can have my wand back please."

He flung it back, watched her hand close around it, and without hesitation sent the Full Body Bind in her direction. She was, however, expecting something quite like that from him, and blocked it – with some difficulty, he was much stronger than she was.

After that, she learned two things very quickly. Firstly, her brother had been more than right when it came to an assessment of the Heir of Slytherin's duelling ability. There was an innate grace to his movements, an almost dance-like quality as he sent hex after hex her way. He was so fluent in this art – more so than she or Marcus had been – sending curses that she was hard-pressed to block and even less able to respond to. After a very short period of time, she gave up hope of launching her own offensive, and simply concentrated on defending herself. It occurred to her that it'd be much easier to appreciate Tom's skill if she weren't the one bearing the full brunt of it.

Because – and this was the second thing she learned – holding back was the one thing Tom Riddle _didn't_ consider when it came to fighting. She'd had an inkling of this when he'd bombarded her with half a dozen potentially lethal curses in quick succession. The knowledge she'd gained from all her extra reading in the library had really been put to the test – with one curse in particular it had almost been a race against time for her to work the counter-spell. With her eyes focused on Tom as she waited for the tightness in her throat to subside, she was suddenly aware that he would be a most formidable enemy.

But it was when he cast the first Unforgivable that she could see just how dangerous Tom Riddle could be, if he put his mind to it.

She'd read about it, had thought she could give a pretty accurate description of what it felt like and how to fight it – but as she felt an eerie, dreamlike calm descend upon her mind she realised that reading about something was no substitute for actually experiencing it firsthand.

__

Drop your wand.

And it was so pleasant, more than that, it was lovely, really, to do just that. To let her wand, such an integral part of who she was, slip through her fingers, to forget it as soon as it hit the floor. She was aware that something somewhere was very wrong, that she'd been brought here to fight, that she should be resisting this –

__

You know who I am.

– but really would it be so unforgivable to surrender completely now and let herself float in the wake of the voice forever? She didn't think so.

__

Come closer.

Easy enough to obey that, a delight in itself because the voice was so very soothing and outside the voice what was there but confusion? The voice promised meaning, promised comfort, and it felt so very _right_ to obey that voice as it whispered other things to her….

…until, suddenly, it was gone and Constance found herself shivering, half-naked, staring up at Tom in mingled shock and surprise.

"That was the Imperius curse," she said wonderingly. She was aware that she was supposed to be appalled, disgusted, all the rest of it – he'd used the curse on _her_. But this _was_ Tom Riddle, and remembering all that implied, she wondered why she felt so surprised. _Can he cast the others? _

"Yes," Tom replied. He didn't sound pleased. "An Unforgivable curse. Why didn't you fight it?"

"You took me by surprise," Constance replied, getting to her feet. That was true enough, although she doubted Tom would accept it as an excuse. "And – maybe – I didn't _want_ to."

There was no way he could have misinterpreted the look on her face. "Had I carried that to the logical conclusion, I would have been guilty of rape – on a technicality," he murmured. "Perhaps next time, I ought to set you tasks that you _will_ find displeasing. You need to learn how to resist that curse."

"Yes,' she agreed, getting shakily to her feet. "How did you – when?" _And why?_

Fortunately he understood what she meant. "Your uncle taught me the Unforgivables," he said. "About two years ago."

"You've used the Killing Curse?" she asked. Horror and awe vied for central place in her emotions then. If theirs had been a _real_ duel, she'd have died about nine times over. It was no wonder that so many people had feared that the art of duelling would become obsolete after the invention of the Killing Curse. "On _what?_"

"Spiders, at first. Then rats, and other small mammals. The larger the animal, the more effort is required. It's best to start small."

"There are wards in here, then, to prevent detection?" _Because you could get a life sentence in Azkaban if you were caught._

"Naturally," he said, looking at her shrewdly. "Do you mind?"

She looked at him blankly for a minute, before working out what he meant. "Not _really_," she said, and to be fair, Tom was right. She would have to learn these, although at the minute she wasn't sure why. He would tell her in time, Constance knew, just as she was well aware that if it had been _anyone_ other than him she'd have been furious. It was deemed an Unforgivable for good reason. With that very much in mind she added, "just don't use the others on _me_, please. I'm not good with pain."

"I don't think there will be any need for that," he replied quietly. "You _will_ learn to cast them yourself, though."

"I can see why you don't duel like everyone else," she said, laughing nervously. "You'd have half the student body wiped out before the teachers noticed."

He gave her a mirthless smile. "Quite."

"Did you do this to Marcus?" Constance asked suddenly. "Have you taught _him_ this? Or was it my uncle?"

"Come with me," Tom said, taking her by the hand and leading her back into the other room. "Marcus, Regal – they train together now. Your uncle hasn't the time, and I have you to deal with."

"I could do it myself, you know," she said, suppressing her indignation as they sat on the sofa. 

"I'm quite sure you could," the boy replied, "but perhaps _I'd_ prefer to be involved with your training."

"Oh," Constance said quickly, realising what she'd said might have been misunderstood. "I didn't mean –"

"I did say, didn't I, that you would have some answers tonight?" Tom interrupted her calmly.

"Yes – yes, you did," she answered swiftly, putting her momentary awkwardness aside. 

"So," he said, watching her, "what is it that you would like to know?"

__

Where to start, she thought with growing elation. The shock she'd felt upon realising that Tom had cast an Unforgivable on her had dissipated; leaving her with the fascination that was becoming permanently associated with the Heir of Slytherin. "Well," Constance said slowly, "there are a number of things – but what I'd really like to know is _why_."

He raised an eyebrow, inviting her to continue.

"Why Marcus started to train me in this way – what is it _for_?"

Tom appeared to think something through then, and when he did speak, it was with great deliberation. "When you imagined, as a child, the Heir of Slytherin – what exactly did you picture as the end result? What did you imagine the Heir would _do_?"

A very good question, and one that gave her a clue to what the answer to her question would be. "I never had a particularly good idea," she answered, "as a child, that is. But then, _I_ was always going to be the Heir when I was little – I think I just pictured something incredibly impressive happening at the end – and there were going to be lots of dazzling duels, I know that. But it was Marcus, really, who tried to imagine a _point_." 

Tom laughed briefly. "What did he come up with?"

"Well, he just went along with the legend really," Constance said thoughtfully, "doing Salazar's bidding whilst at Hogwarts – and oh, I'd forgotten – opening the _Chamber!_"

She looked at him expectantly.

"To release the monster within and wipe out those students who ought not be at Hogwarts." Tom paraphrased the words of the legend softly, eyes distant. "But Salazar's Heir should not be content with such – trifles. Was not Salazar one of the greatest wizards who ever lived?"

"Even to this day," Constance agreed. She was amazed she had the courage to voice her next question, but something within her urged her on. "Is there really a Chamber? Have you seen it?"

"Yes," he said, answering the questions she'd asked – but not the one she'd thought better of asking. "And if it were safe for me to take you there, I would. At the minute, I fear, it is not advisable."

She nodded at that, inhaling slowly as she tried to picture it. Actually seeing the Chamber of Secrets; the thought was almost beyond belief. And there would be so much more from Tom-as-Heir, she knew that already. "So," she began, piecing things together, "our training is for you – are we going to be your _army_?"

"Not quite an army." His voice was low, taut with suppressed feeling. "Closer – much closer than that. As close as blood."

"A family." Constance could understand, now.

"_My_ family," Tom Marvolo Riddle said. "One _I_ have created, one that will not splinter, no matter how far apart we may be in time or space. Blood binds us."

She remembered his blood dripping onto hers, less than two months ago. "Yes," she said. "But – are you planning on going away?" There was an almost plaintive note in her voice as she asked that_. How far apart we may be in time or space_. "Families should stay together. They're stronger that way."

The look on his face as she said that checked her sharply. _Well done Constance_, she scolded herself furiouslyas she remembered just why he'd been brought up in the Muggle world_, put your foot in it, why don't you?_

"In some cases," what all he said, however. "Nevertheless. It will, eventually, be necessary for me to go away, as your uncle did."

"When will you go?"

"After Hogwarts," Tom told her.

Not for another year and a half, or thereabouts, then. "When will you come back?"

He smiled at her frustration. "To this country – not for years. I have much work to do elsewhere, a life to create for myself."

She could accept that, she thought. He had his own myth to create, and it wasn't as if she didn't have enough to think about. Now that she knew he was going away – that was something she would have to face up to when the time came. She would miss him though, she knew that already. And what would she and Marcus do when he was away? "Where will you go?"

"To Albania, first, where _my_ training will be furthered," he said, a far-off expression on his face.

__

Albania? Nobody could miss the significance of that – certainly not with the current war. For it was Grindelwald who had emerged from that country's dark forests to threaten all Europe – and, if she remembered rightly, she'd once suspected her uncle of having links with that Dark wizard. She felt strangely disappointed. She couldn't picture Tom as being a follower of any sort. 

"You look troubled," Tom said, eyeing her closely. "Tell me why."

"I can't see you working for anyone else. In any capacity," she said honestly, knowing Tom would understand just whom she meant by _anyone else_.

"In which case you have assessed my nature accurately," he replied, looking briefly exasperated. "I have no interest in helping someone _else_ take control of this country." 

"Good," she said, and meant it. Then she thought about what he'd just said, and frowned. Just enough emphasis on one word had made his meaning crystal clear. "Then _your_ training…."

"Some secrets are still my own," he told her. "And must remain so, for now."

Constance dipped her head in acknowledgement. In truth, she already had far too much to think about. The Heir and his Chamber, the Unforgivable Curses, the family Tom had forged for himself. Albania. His future, her future. She was exhausted, could feel her temples beginning to throb – a side effect of the Imperius Curse she supposed. 

"You should sleep," Tom observed wisely. "Gather your strength. You'll have need of it before long."

There was no arguing with that, not after all he'd just told her. Her brother and her uncle had placed their trust in Tom Riddle; she would do the same. 

*********

Notes to the Reviewers

Sanyin: Glad you like the OCs. Aurelius is to be Severus' father, and although he's not quite as deranged as the glimpse we caught of him in OotP made out, he _will_ be. I like piling torment after torment onto the Snape family – but that's not to come until near the end of Part Two. There's more about Octavius _in Where Souls Do Couch On Flowers_, if you care to read that.

Jaya: End of year exams are bitches, I blame them (and midterms) for all the delays in publishing that have occurred since about September. 

Sadako: Quintus is probably my favourite as well, after Aurelius. Constance _is_ enthusiastic about joining Tom – but as far as she knows, he hasn't actually done anything horribly wrong. She's not yet aware of the fact that he's already opened the Chamber – and My!Tom hasn't yet killed his father (Part Two, that will be) – so in a way, it was just like a game to her. Things will change, but her loyalties lie with him – she would never go against her family, or the Slytherin Heir. 

FowlArtemis: Aurelius has a lot worse coming to him. I like Suffering!Snapes.

ElspethMoon: Glad you like Tom. I have to admit I don't think he was ever normal enough for anything like a healthy sex life – but he needs to bind his followers to him by any means possible.

The Strange One: One day there will be a Chain/TWIB clusterfuck. Octavius and Gesius Lott, oh yes. And Constance – she's not exactly naïve, only she has very strong Gryffindor tendencies. But she wouldn't tell anyone that.

Ariana Deralte: Lovely girl, reviewing me lots. Dialogue's the only thing I can do, really, scenes with action usually stump me for weeks. Although that could just be laziness. "Better to reign in hell…" it just IS Riddle, isn't it?


	18. Driven Like The Snow

****

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. With the exception of Tom Riddle, Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall Professor Binns and Armando Dippet, the characters belong to me. The descendants of the Malfoys, Snapes, Blacks and Potters belong to J K Rowling, but I'm sure you could figure that out for yourself. 

****

Acknowledgements: Chapter late as all hell; I'm useless. I got distracted by Swallows and Amazons and the Worst Witch for a bit, but now I'm all new again. Only two chapters left after this one, then I can start part two. And I'll actually get these done. At a much quicker pace as well. Ta very much, Faith, for threatening to kneecap me. It made me motivated at any rate. This chapter's mostly .. setting stuff up for the next one, when Stuff Actually Happens!

The Serpentine Chain Part One

Chapter Eighteen – Driven Like The Snow

The Head of Gryffindor had listened to Christopher's account of his conversation with the Potions master in sympathetic silence. To his eternal credit, Matthew Seraphim said nothing that resembled an _I told you so – _although Christopher felt it would have been justified. Instead, he was quiet for a moment as he digested what he had just been told, his brown eyes compassionate, and what he'd said next hadn't quite been what Christopher had expected.

"It hurts, doesn't it?"

"What are we supposed to do about it?" Christopher asked, preferring not to state the obvious answer to his friend's question. "What am I supposed to do?"

Matthew looked at him intently. "What _can_ you do? He appears to have made his choice."

Christopher sighed. He hated the very thought of it; that Quintus would willingly, deliberately place Octavius Malfoy and Elspeth Haven over him. Even if the Potions master had his family's interests to look after, it _did_ hurt. And he hated more the fact that despite his naïve hope that Quintus would behave differently, he'd known deep down that it couldn't be any other way. Quintus was the way he was, the way he'd been brought up. However much Quintus had tried to make Christopher feel welcome, that time he'd gone to Summerisle, however much Quintus had protested that he didn't feel the same way as his _family_ about Muggleborns – when it came to the crunch, the Potions master would put blood first. It wasn't always a bad thing, Christopher told himself, loyalty to one's family was traditional in the Muggle world as well; from the ancestor worship of ancient races to the simple dictum_ honour thy father and thy mother_. It was just that this was different. If Octavius Malfoy were working for Grindelwald, the repercussions would be terrible.

And although Christopher didn't want to believe that Quintus would _ever_ do anything to support the Dark Lord, either directly or indirectly, he knew that his erstwhile friend would do whatever was best for his family. 

"Yes, he has," the Chantwork teacher admitted, though the words tasted bitter to him. "So – what happens now?"

Matthew exhaled slowly. "Now?"

"Yes, now," Christopher replied. "What do we do? Does – does Dumbledore know?"

"No. Not yet." Matthew paused. "But he will have to be told."

"And afterwards?"

"We follow his lead," the Head of Gryffindor said, almost apologetically. "I don't know what he'll say. Or do."

Silence followed, as both men occupied themselves with their thoughts. Christopher had grown to hate it, silence, since the death of his brother. No longer the peaceful companion he'd known and appreciated since he'd been a child, no longer the two-bars rest that heralded the return of a familiar well loved tune. Silence itself had taken on new meaning. It had texture. It had form. Between himself and Quintus, silence said more than words. Silence had a voice. He hated everything about it.

"The Ministry has already stepped up security here," Matthew said eventually.

"I know." There were Aurors all over Hogsmeade. Around the Ministry, Diagon Alley, Knockturn Alley. For the first time in approximately two centuries, the wizarding world had a strong military presence. It was headline news, and it wasn't enough, not nearly enough to satisfy the growing discontent amongst the wizarding community. The owls that had delivered warning letters to every seventh year, depriving Dippet's carefully worded speech of any real meaning, they'd hit the news tomorrow. The wizarding world didn't have the terminology, had never needed it. Warfare amongst wizards had never been on this large a scale. Had never been like this. The Muggle word had echoed in the Great Hall. _Conscription._

Christopher and Matthew were used to the idea. They had relatives in the Muggle world, knew how it worked. Their parents had seen the First World War through. For the majority of students, it was something new. Something unfamiliar, frightening.

"The Headmaster's going to stop Hogsmeade visits too," Matthew said.

That, Christopher hadn't known. "For everyone?"

His friend shook his head. "Seventh years can still go. But in supervised groups; and certain areas of the town are off limits."

"How do you know?" Christopher asked, although he thought he could guess.

"Albus and I were talking. It was his idea."

"But if the students are attacked –"

"He said that the Aurors ought to be sufficient to deter any attack," Matthew said doubtfully. "But I got the impression that he thinks the seventh years should have an idea of what it will be like for them – next year. I don't think he'd deliberately send them into danger – but I can't help feeling he wants them to know what they'll be up against."

"It's risky." Christopher was somewhat surprised at the seemingly mild Transfiguration teacher's idea. "What if there was real trouble? The students could be in serious danger – not to mention that Dumbledore could lose his job over it."

Matthew shook his head, smiling a little. "It's the Headmaster who will have to take responsibility," he said. "Not Albus. The idea might have been his, but it's Dippet who will enforce it."

The Chantwork teacher thought about that for a while. 

"It's always been about Albus," Matthew added softly. "It's harsh, and a little unfair, I admit – but we need Albus more than Dippet. Our side needs him."

*

"If it's not over soon, _we'll_ have to join up next year," Richard said, scowling darkly at his Potions essay. "Do you have any idea how much that will ruin my plans?"

"What plans?" Aurelius asked. "You've never had any plans."

"Just because I haven't seen fit to pour out my heart to you doesn't mean I don't have anything planned," Richard replied, his scowl deepening. "And there's no point in me telling you now, because no doubt we'll all be packed off to the front and slaughtered. Without even a say in the matter."

"We have another year," Aurelius pointed out quietly, although he in truth wasn't happy about the situation, not in the least. It would really fling a spanner into the Snape works in the unlikely event that he were sent abroad to fight.

Richard looked at him. "_I_ have another year. _You_ won't have to go anywhere, will you?"

Aurelius blinked. "What do you mean?"

"You're too important to lose," his friend said flatly. "You being the only son. Your father will have sorted something out with the Ministry. He can afford it."

And that was the reason for Richard's bitterness, Aurelius realized then. His family was wealthy and powerful enough to get him out of any situation – but the Marlowes' financial situation hadn't been healthy for a very long time. Nor did the status of a pureblood wield as much strength as it once had in the eyes of the Ministry. Richard would have no choice but to obey his summons when it came. 

__

If it came. Aurelius had not forgotten his father's fury at the Ministry's betrayal. A helping hand from the Snapes might be all Grindelwald needed to tip the balance in the struggle for Britain. And no doubt the Lord of Webs would be more than willing to accommodate the needs of the Snape family – and their friends. 

"The war might be over by then," Aurelius said, distracted. "Besides, there's more to it than just fighting. We'll all be assigned to different departments depending on our strengths; you'd probably end up doing something tactical. Or strategic. Because of your Arithmancy thing."

Richard shrugged impatiently. "It's not the getting hacked to bits by a bunch of Grindelwald's friends that bothers me – well, it does, obviously – but I just don't want to be involved in any way whatsoever. I said I had my _own _plans."

"You don't mind if Grindelwald wins, then?" Aurelius said cautiously, his voice lowered so that the students seated nearby couldn't hear.

His friend scowled, but answered with what seemed like startling honesty. "Would it make any difference whatsoever to me and mine? We're dirt poor now; we'd be dirt poor if he won. The only we could make any change in our situation is if we had something to sell someone. The Ministry, or Grindelwald. I'm not fussy. But we _don't_."

"Is that the way your parents feel?" the Snape heir asked.

"No," Richard answered shortly. "But like I said, we've got nothing special to offer either side. I want to make my own way."

"How?" Aurelius was curious, aware that Richard had never mentioned what he planned to do after leaving school, not in any serious way. "What would you do? If you could?"

"Work in the City," his friend answered promptly. "There's a fortune to be made if you're willing to take the risk, and it's not like I've got much to lose."

"The Wizarding Stock Exchange?" Aurelius queried, puzzled. "Surely waiting until the war's over won't affect your plans that much."

Richard looked embarrassed. "Well, maybe not, but I'm not going into the WSE. I'm going into the _City_."

It took Aurelius a moment, then, "The _Muggle_ City?"

"Indirectly," Richard answered, looking more and more uncomfortable. "You see, I got offered a job at Gringotts after the NEWTs –"

Aurelius cut him off. "You never told me! Explain."

Richard proceeded to do so, a look of smug satisfaction on his face. "Well, because of my Arithmancy result in the OWLs, I was introduced to some people on the Board at Gringotts by one of my father's friends, and, along with some others, had to take an impromptu examination in front of them. I didn't hear anything from them during them summer, but my confirmation letter came from the Board today, offering me a post in the Investment Department."

"Don't you need your NEWTs?" asked Aurelius.

"The offer's conditional," Richard replied. "But I only need to pass – Arithmancy's the important one."

"But what's it got to do with Muggles?" Aurelius was mystified. 

"Muggle activities and wars often affect the wizarding community," Richard said knowledgeably. "Studying their politics often means that certain Gringotts clients get distinct advantages in investments, or business deals. And I'd be in the middle, sort of, as the Gringotts Investment Department works very closely with Muggle financiers."

"Oh," Aurelius said, thinking privately that it sounded like a respectable version of the way in which various well known wizarding families had gained wealth through initiating and taking advantage of Muggle conflicts in previous centuries. His respect for his friend increased somewhat. "So you've been learning about the Muggle world to further your own career purposes?"

Richard grinned. "Well, it certainly wasn't for fun," he said. 

"Have you told anyone else?" Aurelius asked. 

"Not yet," Richard answered. "I wanted to test the waters first – Muggles aren't exactly a hot topic amongst Slytherins."

Aurelius laughed. "So that's why you've been dropping in casual references to Muggle culture from time to time? You idiot, it's not like you're going to snap your wand in half, is it?"

"No," agreed Richard. "But you wouldn't catch a Malfoy having anything to do with Muggles," he pointed out.

Aurelius shrugged. "Not now, maybe," he said. "But it's the same with all the very old families – nobody knows exactly what we got up to in the past. A couple of hundred years adds respectability to anything."

"My family's always been – _linked_ – to Muggles," Richard admitted dismally. "You know, four hundred years ago, one of us actually went and _lived_ as one. Even though he came back to the fold, it doesn't create a good impression."

"Just try not to marry one," Aurelius said, smirking. "Teresa would be devastated."

Richard continued, ignoring his friend's last remark, "I also don't want everyone to say, "well done Richard," and then later discover that I've failed all my NEWTs and have to scrub tubeworms off your cousin's desks for a living, either."

"My cousin wouldn't have you," Aurelius said, mockingly. "You need qualifications to assist Potions masters, I'll have you know."

Richard pulled a face. "There was a subtle hint in what I just said, by the way."

Aurelius got it. "Well done, Richard," he congratulated his friend.

For a while after that conversation, Aurelius' mind kept returning to the conscription issue, amongst other things. He wrote to his father, to find out if he would gain exemption from military service after his final exams, and was somewhat relieved to learn that Valerius Snape had matters well in hand. It was one less thing to worry about, at any rate.

*

Dippet's announcements had been met with mixed feelings amongst the staff. The decision to stop Hogsmeade visits hadn't surprised anyone, although several teachers had wondered aloud why the seventh years would still be allowed into what was potentially a risky environment. 

"And just who is expected to supervise them?" Octavius Malfoy had asked, with more than a little disgust.

Armando Dippet peered at him. "Why, you are, of course," he'd said placidly. 

"All by myself?" the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher had said, rather piling on the sarcasm in Quintus' opinion. 

"No, no," Dippet said, "all the staff, in turns. I'll be drawing up a rota naturally."

"Oh, naturally," Octavius had replied, "we wouldn't want the whole thing to be a complete shambles."

It had been Dumbledore, sitting to the right of the Headmaster, who had frowned then. Gazing at the blond haired teacher, he'd asked with a hint of steel in his usually mild voice whether Octavius doubted the Headmaster's judgment.

"I think it's a good idea," Matthew Seraphim had said then, before the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher could reply. "Gives the students a bit more experience, even if it is only in safety drills."

"It's nothing compared to what they'll have to face when they leave anyway," the Head of Ravenclaw said gloomily. "Such a pity – they're so young. I'm not criticizing the Ministry's decision, mind you, I just wish it wasn't necessary."

"Alas," Dumbledore replied sadly, "these dark times call for unpleasant measures." 

"I agree," Christopher said with what Quintus thought was unusual determination. "The more we can do to prepare them for what's coming, the better. It's not going to be easy for them when they join up. It's going to be awful." 

The Potions Master wasn't sure exactly how he felt about the Hogsmeade issue. He'd been more concerned with the gathering of teachers, the first time he'd been in the same room as both Octavius Malfoy and Christopher Cale in quite a while. His mind hadn't really been on the subject at hand, but was wandering back to the last time he'd talked to Christopher. He hadn't spoken to his friend since the Chantwork teacher had walked out of the staffroom after trying to warn him about Octavius and Elspeth. It wasn't that he wanted to do without Christopher – he'd found that he missed his company badly – it was that things had just changed too much for them ever to regain the easy familiarity they'd once had. The blood issue had finally become personal for them, and there was no way to change that. There would only be silence now, or worse, awkward, meaningless conversation. 

"Knut for them?"

Unmistakable, her voice, and that was another thing he worried about. But he'd made a private resolution during the staff meeting to sort this business out once and for all, and he would stick to it.

"They're not worth even that, I'm afraid," he replied.

"If there's anything I can do to help," she said then, her hand resting lightly upon his shoulder, "do tell me. Sharing the burden makes the bearing so much easier, after all."

"So I've heard," Quintus answered, then took a deep breath and went for it. "Perhaps you should tell me about your spider tattoo, then?"

Elspeth's fingers, which had moved upwards to entwine themselves gently in his hair, were still as he turned to look at her, and her face was solemn. "Ah," she said. "I wondered if you'd seen that."

"After the Halloween feast, in your room. You must have known I'd seen it. I was certain that Octavius had seen me looking."

"You know," she said thoughtfully, "he did. But – you didn't say anything about it for so long. He began to think he'd been mistaken. That you'd just been, well, eyeing me up."

"No," Quintus said, refusing to be distracted. "I saw it. I want to know what it means."

She was silent for a long moment, then, her hand slipping away from him. "I won't insult your intelligence by asking why you didn't think to find out yourself," Elspeth said, slowly, as though thinking out loud. "The information you'd find from books is limited, to say the least. But you must have drawn some conclusions yourself."

The Potions Master smiled thinly. "I suppose I needn't point out that Grindelwald's emblem is a spider. I can only assume – from what little I've been able to pick up – that the image of the arachnid is important to all Seers. Not just visionweavers."

The corner of her mouth twitched. "You want to know whether I'm working for Grindelwald? Or whether I'm a visionweaver? Two rather opposing positions, don't you think – and I could just like spiders, after all."

He didn't bother answering, but waited for her to continue.

"I suppose you've worked out for yourself that I'm no visionweaver," she said then, resignedly. "My situation here would be impossible if that were the case. But I have never worked for Grindelwald, in any capacity. The tattoo – is personal. And not something I intend to discuss with you."

"Is that the truth?"

"Would you believe me if I said yes?" she countered instantly.

"Has Octavius?" Quintus asked, ignoring her question. "Worked for Grindelwald?"

She smiled at that, although her eyes looked tired. "Do you really think he tells me everything? That I share everything with him?"

"So your information is limited," the Potions master said, deliberately throwing her words back at her. "But you must have drawn some conclusions yourself."

"And I am not bound to share them with you," she answered coolly. "I have given you an answer to your first question – but I will not speculate about Octavius' past for your benefit. If there is something you want to know, perhaps you should ask _him_."

"An interesting conversation that would be," Quintus said snidely. "Hello Octavius, I've been screwing your girlfriend, oh, and have you been working for Grindelwald lately?"

"Do you really think it's anything he hasn't had to discuss before?" she asked. Her voice was scathing. 

"I don't know," the Potions master retorted, wondering why he'd let the conversation become so _pointed_. "I've no idea what you've been up to in the past, although you seemed to have no qualms about switching from him to me – so maybe I've attributed too much significance to the whole situation, you're just fickle and I'm only the latest in a long line."

With some satisfaction, he noted that her cheeks were slightly flushed and her eyes sparkling. She was furious, he could tell. And perhaps a little hurt. Maybe it would make her more talkative. "Hit a nerve, have I?" he asked.

"I don't – I've _never_ –" she began tremulously, then paused to compose herself. When she did speak, it was with the iciest, coldest tone he'd ever heard. Impersonal, as though she were deliberately trying to detach herself from what she was saying. "I have been with Octavius since I was fourteen. Since then – until you – there has been no one else for me. Do you understand that? Do you think that _he_ can say the same, that he has been faithful only to me? Do you think that after nineteen years of overlooking these other women, other _men_, I would do this – with you – because I'm _fickle_?"

In stark contrast to her cold tone, she almost spat the last word at him. He flinched slightly, feeling a pang of guilt. "I didn't mean to offend you," he said, not exactly truthfully. "I would just like to know where I stand."

"Ask me then," she said, her voice suddenly calm again. "I will answer as best I can – for myself."

He nodded slowly, accepting that and what she'd left unsaid. "I asked you once before," he said, "if there was something you wanted from me. Now I ask you again. Why did you start this?"

Her eyes sought nothing from him but met his gaze squarely as she answered. "Because I needed you."

The truth, at last, and although it wasn't exactly flattering he welcomed it. "Why?"

She hesitated. "You are a Potions master," she said at last. "And I am a Seer."

Quintus exhaled softly. "I – had thought of that," he admitted. "Only I'd thought it was visionweavers who tended to die young, not Seers."

"In general, yes," Elspeth answered. "But it's different for me. I've been visioning longer, and more intensely – my body has been exhausted too many times. If I carry on like this –"

"So you only wanted me for my skills as a Potions master," Quintus said quickly, to cut her off before she could say exactly what would happen. "And I presume Octavius knows all about it."

"Yes," she confessed. "Well. To a certain extent."

"Does he know I've slept with you? Or was it his idea?" He wasn't sure which of the two possibilities disturbed him the most. And, thinking about it, he wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer either so continued quickly, "You could have just _asked_ me for my help. You didn't need to – go as far as you did."

"I didn't need to." It wasn't quite a question, wasn't quite a statement. There was something in her eyes that he couldn't read, couldn't begin to decipher. "But perhaps I _wanted_ to."

He wondered whether he could believe that, and decided against it. Then decided it didn't matter anyway. She'd done what she felt she had to, he supposed, and although he didn't like it, it was understandable. "What is it you want me to brew?" he asked, almost gently. "I'll see what I can do, but I can't make any promises. You know the consequences if we're discovered. Life in Azkaban won't do either of us any good."

Elspeth smiled bitterly. "You'd be prepared to risk it, even after what I've done? I doubt that."

"I'd think about it," he answered, not prepared to give her any more at that point. "It wouldn't be easy. Not with the extensive background inspections the Ministry's starting to carry out. I'd have to be so careful – a slip from either of us would send us both to prison."

"It doesn't matter."

"It does to me!" That made him angry, and he didn't feel bad about showing it. "I'm not going to _prison_ for you. Certainly not now. If I ever would have done, that is."

"I meant – it doesn't matter about the potion," she explained patiently. "I couldn't ask you to do it. It would be too great a risk, and for nothing."

"Nothing?" he repeated, confused. There was something about her fatalistic tone that went against the grain. It was hard, to equate the woman standing before him with an ailing invalid – but he had seen for himself how much visioning took out of her. _She's withstood that, for thirty odd years?_ "The potion would help. It'd give you extra time, it'd keep you alive – admittedly it's risky, it's not exactly moral – but it's not for nothing."

She looked uncomfortable, and shockingly, close to tears. "There's something I haven't told you."

"What?" he asked warily.

"I said that when I started this, it was because I needed your skills. That was true," she said, and now she could not meet his eyes. "I'd had various signs, you see, and I thought that you were the way out but – I Saw it, clearly, it's nothing to do with potions, it's nothing to do with me having the Sight, it's just me in the wrong place at the wrong time and there's _nothing_ I can do about it!"

"Oh gods," he murmured as her words rang out in the still air, and the gravity of her situation sank in. _What must it be like, to see your own death?_ "Elspeth – are you sure?"

She nodded dumbly.

"There's nothing that can be done?" 

"You can't cheat death," she said, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. "And Octavius doesn't know, you see, he thinks I'll be fine if I take a few potions – I don't want him to know."

He couldn't take his eyes off her. He couldn't imagine what it would be like, to have foreseen your own death. It was worse than anything he could imagine. "I won't tell him," he managed. "You have my word on that."

"It means a lot to me," she said. "Thank you."

"Is there anything I can do? To make things easier?" he asked then, and instantly cursed himself for being a tactless idiot. He'd only meant to offer her comfort, instead it had sounded as if he were offering to put her down.

Elspeth looked at him sharply, and then as if coming to some decision she said almost apologetically, "I'll understand if you want to refuse – only, I don't want to be by myself. Not tonight."

Knowing what he did, Quintus didn't think there was any way he could refuse her. Even though he now had a great many questions – why would she not tell Octavius? Why was she with him instead? Why had she continued with her pursuit of him knowing how fruitless it would be? – he ignored them and stepped forward to hold her.

*

Although she'd seen them several times in the Zalaras Wing at nights, and knew that they too were part of Tom Riddle's group, Constance had learned not to publicly acknowledge Felix DuPré or Regal Rosier any more than was absolutely necessary. Although they were her brother's friends, she was to spend as little time as possible in their company during school hours. Tom had gone to great lengths to impress upon her the need for absolute secrecy. Anything out of the ordinary, he'd said, any change in her usual social routine could be spotted. And she had to admit; it didn't bother her too much. She'd known Felix fairly well, although he'd never been a particularly close friend of hers – but she'd never liked Regal and had never had any plans to cultivate his companionship.

"He's always seemed false," she said quietly to Marcus, as they sat in the darkest corner of the common room. "I know you think he's one of us, but are you really sure he's trustworthy? I mean, it's not as if he knows who Tom really is. He's probably just in this for the thrill of it."

Her brother shook his head. "He knows Tom's descended from the Zalaras line," he said, "although he can't grasp the connection with Slytherin until the bloodbinding is dissolved, obviously. If we were to say to Regal outright that Tom was the Heir our words would just sound like gibberish. He won't work it out from the anagram, either. He could stare at it for years and never actually see it."

"Yes, yes, I know all that," Constance said impatiently, then paused as a thought struck her. "How _is_ the bloodbinding dissolved, anyway?" 

"I'm not sure," Marcus answered pensively. "Octavius is the Secret Keeper; the ritual of undoing is something he and the Heir must carry out together."

"Do you think he will?" she asked. "Want that. The dissolving, I mean."

Her brother stared at a blade of grass contemplatively. "At some point in the future, I expect so. Although I couldn't say any more than that. But it was Regal we were talking about, wasn't it?"

She nodded, frowning. "I just don't think he's right. Maybe it's just that he's not one of _us_. I can't really say why." Although if she were honest with herself, as she was not with Marcus at this moment, she thought her dislike of Regal might have had something to do with the way he eyed her – and most girls for that matter – with a mingled lust and malice. There was something about him that made her flesh creep. She wondered that Marcus couldn't see it.

Her brother laughed, then. "No, he'll never be one of us," he said, amused. "If that's what's been worrying you – we'll always be number one to _him_. For better or worse, and all that."

"Oh, I know that," Constance said seriously, gazing across the room to where Regal Rosier sat playing wizard's chess with the Head Boy. "We're his, the way no-one _else_ could ever be."

"Then don't worry about Regal. If I didn't think he was suitable, I'd never have brought him into this."

"Brought him into what?" asked a blithely cheerful voice, and the two Malfoys jumped. Turning, Constance saw Richard's grinning face peering over her brother's shoulder.

"Mind your own business," she snapped, wondering just how much he'd heard. "Can't you tell when we're trying to have a private conversation?"

Despite Marcus' scowl, Richard didn't look particularly ashamed of himself. But then, he never did, Constance reflected as her intrusive friend pointed out that the Slytherin common room was _not _perhaps the best place to have a private conversation.

"And you've brought my curiosity upon yourselves," he added, "by looking so suspicious over here in this shady corner of cunning-ness. So what's Regal suitable for?"

"Harassing Verity Black," Marcus said waspishly, "it's what he does best."

Immensely grateful for her brother's quick thinking, Constance agreed. "It's all part of the plot to ensnare the virtuous one."

Richard looked incredulous. "You've been after McGonagall for months," he said, "and you haven't got anywhere yet? You might as well give up, Marcus my boy, cause if she cracks it certainly won't be for you."

"I'd prefer not to discuss my business with you," Marcus answered coldly, his face contemptuous. "Although you're quite wrong in every respect. Now, did you come over here for a reason, or was it just to make yourself even more insufferable than usual?"

"Oh, if only you knew how those cold words wounded my tender aching heart," Richard said indifferently, "but actually, what you just said certainly explains a lot – I was wondering why Black was sitting in the corridor outside with the look of death upon his noble visage. I think he's waiting for you."

"Could you talk any more rubbish?" Constance asked in disgust, just as Marcus stifled an expression of fury. 

"Why didn't you tell me that immediately, idiot?" her brother said shortly, getting up. "Regal," he called out across the common room. "REGAL!"

Regal looked up from the chessboard inquiringly.

"The good times are here again," Marcus said gloatingly, "are you coming?"

"Er – where are you going?" Constance asked, then clicked. "Oh! Can I come too?"

Her brother shook his head. "Not this time, we're doing this the traditional way." He smiled smugly. "Doubt I'll be long, though."

Constance doubted it too. If Marcus and Regal's illicit training sessions had been anything like the ones she'd had with Tom, it would be a marvel if Verity Black wasn't in the hospital wing within ten minutes. She and Richard watched the two boys go.

"Oh, it's all scandal here in Slytherin," the brown haired boy said gleefully. "He _must've_ shagged McGonagall to get Black horrified enough to call for a proper duel. They've got seconds and everything."

"He hasn't said anything about such goings on to me," Constance said huffily. "Last time I heard him mention her it was Christmas."

"Yeah, well," Richard said, "you haven't been around enough for anyone to tell you anything. I was quite surprised to find you here and not off looking up obscure references to some crackpot Seer, just so you can forget it all for your exams – which are, I might add, still months away."

That was a fair point. She'd surprised herself with her ability to actually keep on top of schoolwork, what with the countless nights she'd spent wearing herself out in one way or another with Tom. She wasn't doing that much better than before, either, but at least she wasn't falling behind. Her efforts had at least bought her one rare night off from homework; she'd almost forgotten just how good it felt to do absolutely nothing.

"Go on, admit it," her friend said, watching her closely, "you're sick to the back teeth of working, aren't you? You really want to come and advise me on my troubled love life instead, don't you?"

"Your love life's been troubled ever since you realized the difference between girls and boys," Constance said snidely. "What's going on with you now? Has Teresa proposed again?"

"Dear me," Richard exclaimed, "you really _are_ behind the times, aren't you? Don't you talk to the people in your dorm anymore?" Then, answering her puzzled look of inquiry, he went on to explain. "I told Teresa to move along last week! Arya says she's been plotting my death ever since – especially," he added with a satisfied smirk, "especially as she knows there's another woman involved."

That did come as a surprise to Constance, and rather a nasty one at that. It wasn't good that she'd become so out of touch with her friends. They were bound to wonder what she was up to eventually, and although Aurelius already knew, she didn't want anyone else to find out. For his sake, as well as her own. "I make it a rule never to listen to a word that comes out of Teresa's mouth," she said loftily, "simply for the benefit of my sanity. The girl could whine the ears off a Gryffindor. But who is this other woman? And why was I not the first to know? Wouldn't have killed you to track me down and tell me something interesting like that, now, would it?"

"Mph," Richard said indifferently, "I've been a bit preoccupied with the new light of my life. She's the scrumptious jammy scone to Teresa's bit of broken mouldy old biscuit. Haven't had time to think about _you._"

"Oh, what a flattering comparison," Constance said, laughing, "but unless you tell me who she is, I'll break your legs and hand you over to the broken biscuit."

"Oh very well," her friend replied hastily, "but don't you laugh, or I'll get the scrumptious scone to break _your_ legs. It's the Lessops girl. Susanna. No, Aurelius isn't happy about it either."

Constance stared at him for a moment, then laughed. "You – and her? I bet Aurelius is _fuming! _She's been downright cheeky to him for years. The Quidditch thing, I suppose."

"True, but I've been more than downright cheeky to him for years as well, and he loves me as if I were his own brother," Richard said happily, "in fact, sometimes I feel we're almost closer than brothers. But I thought it'd be you crying over it, actually, what with the bet and all that."

She blinked. "Susanna told you about that?!"

He grinned at her. "No secrets between me and my lady love," he said, "and I've got to say that although I was absolutely intrigued by several of the wagers – the menage a trois, for example – I'm much happier with Lessops. I wish you and Aurelius all the best; and although I know it's hard to let go of the past, I think Aurelius will get over me eventually."

"You jumped up little git," she said, trying not to laugh. "I take it that all bets are now off, then?"

He sighed. "Yeah. Pity, really, because I was actually hoping to place my own and pocket the jackpot – but 'twas not to be."

"Anyway," Constance began, ignoring him, "if you're so happy with the Lessops girl, why do you need advice? What's so troubled about your love life?"

"Only the sad consequences to others," he said with mock sorrow. "I'm quite disgustingly happy, you see, and although I keep getting baleful looks from She Who Got Dumped, I'm ever so worried about Aurelius. I just don't think he's taken it too well. He's always off with the French people chattering away in some foreign language about how great things are on the Continent, and how great French history is, and honestly, I was quite happy to forget about Aurelius being half-French until he started to go all bilingual on me. I think he's still in shock about the whole thing."

"There's French blood in me, too," Constance said smugly, "or so I'm told. From centuries ago."

"But you can't speak a word of it, because you're thick and uncultured," Richard retorted, "which is what Aurelius should be."

"My ears burn," said the boy in question then, flinging himself down into a chair beside them. "Is Richard complaining? Again?"

"Oh, Richard would never complain," Constance replied with a smirk, "he's far too well-bred for that. Besides, he's got the female population of Hogwarts eating out of his hand, haven't you?"

"It's a burden that someone must bear, and that someone might as well be me," Richard said modestly. "But where've _you_ been," he asked Aurelius, "I was left to fend for myself here, thanks very much. I had to talk to _Constance._"

"Oh, thanks a lot," Constance retorted, just as Aurelius said "I've been working. You should give it a try from time to time. You never know, you might surprise yourself."

Richard looked at him scornfully. "Working? Babbling on about French pride with Camille and Remy? Sod off and live there if it amuses you so much. _We_ don't need you."

"Evidently not," Aurelius replied, and Constance thought his answer was only half in jest. But there was nothing she could say or do about that, not now.

*

An unpleasantly dreary month at the best of times, the still-grey days of March seemed to pass interminably slowly as the school – and the country – waited for Grindelwald's next move. Several of the staff had already received notification that checks upon their background had begun; checks that would be much more intensive than the ones all teachers had to undergo before being accepted into the Hogwarts faculty. It was rumoured that the families and associates of the teaching staff would also be examined, and any misdeeds or what were deemed as "harmful attitudes", however remotely connected to the teacher, would be noted and entered into a register. Nobody had said it out loud, but presumably if the inquiry turned up something disturbing that would be it for the teacher in question. Nobody was _happy_ about it but the general consensus was that it was a necessary evil. After all, there was a war on.

It was during the last days of the month, shortly before he himself was due to partner Lydia Grey in the supervision of the Ravenclaw seventh years out in Hogsmeade, that Christopher found himself summoned once more to Dumbledore's rooms. He knew that Matthew would be there, and felt fairly certain as to why _he_ had been invited. The Head of Gryffindor had undoubtedly informed the Headmaster about the rift that had arisen between Quintus and Christopher – perhaps he had been called to discuss the potential dangers that would arise if Quintus continued to associate with Malfoy and Haven. But then, he couldn't really see the point. It was clear that there was nothing left to say to his school-friend; the matter was best left to Dumbledore's discretion. If Quintus had made his bed with the two Slytherins, he would have to lie in it. Even if it didn't bear thinking about. 

With such dark thoughts, Christopher knocked heavily on the Deputy Head's door. Surprisingly, and rather disquietingly, only Albus Dumbledore was there.

"Sit down, do," the Transfiguration teacher said pleasantly, waving him over to a chair.

Christopher obeyed, smiling nervously. It occurred to him that he'd never spoken to Dumbledore alone before; Matthew had always been present. He felt rather like he was a student again, obscurely guilty. "It was very nice of you to ask me to tea," he said.

"Ah," Dumbledore said, "not at all. I always find that the drinking of tea is a charming social pastime, wouldn't you agree?"

Christopher blinked. "I suppose so," he answered. "Is this a social visit, then?"

"Mostly," the older man replied, although there was a watchful look in his eye as he continued, "although I must confess to having a number of ulterior motives. My main interest, however, is _you_."

The Chantwork teacher was a little uncertain of how best to respond. "Oh," Christopher said. "Er – why?"

Albus Dumbledore took a moment to pour them both a cup of tea. The odd cottage-shaped teapot was still functioning, Christopher noted as he waited for the Deputy Head to reply. "Well," Dumbledore said finally, "I imagine things have been a little – difficult – for you of late. I thought it would do you good to talk."

Confiding in the Deputy Head was quite possibly the most unnerving prospect Christopher could think of, other than asking Octavius Malfoy out for a friendly drink and trip to the sweetshop. Even though the older man was looking at him with a most understanding expression, it still felt _odd_ to be in this situation with someone Christopher still thought of as his teacher. _Don't be so ridiculous, _he said to himself firmly, _you're hardly going to get a detention now, are you?_

"Well," he began, hesitantly, "I suppose Matthew's told you about – about Quintus, then?" He couldn't quite keep the resentment from his voice when he mentioned his old friend's name. 

Dumbledore looked at him almost regretfully from behind his teacup. "He's told me nothing I couldn't see for myself," he said gently. "You and Quintus used to be inseparable – now you barely speak to each other. Mealtimes, in the staffroom – one of you always makes a speedy exit."

"He has other friends now," Christopher answered. He felt a little foolish, and in truth, when phrased that way it really did sound petty. But the consequences of Quintus' choice were what mattered, he told himself. And Christopher would always be the afterthought, for want of a better expression, as far as Quintus and his family were concerned. He said as much to Dumbledore.

After a long pause, the Deputy Head leaned back in his chair, gazing thoughtfully at the Chantwork teacher. "It must have been quite a blow. Especially after recent events."

"You mean my brother?" Christopher smiled awkwardly. "You can talk about him, Professor, I won't break down. And yes. After what happened to John – it makes this even worse."

Dumbledore nodded. "Quintus, I think, is not a genuinely bad person –"

"I know that," Christopher interrupted, "he's been my friend for years. He wouldn't willingly do anything _wrong_, but he'd never choose not to. If that makes sense."

"He will do as his family dictate rather than what he himself may wish?" the other man said, though he seemed to be speaking to himself rather than to Christopher.

The Chantwork teacher nodded miserably. "He said as much himself. And – I just don't think he knows what he's getting into, and he won't listen to me. There's nothing I can do to change his mind, make him see things differently. It's all down to Valerius."

"Ah, yes," the auburn haired wizard said then, "Valerius is something quite different to our Quintus, I fear."

"But Quintus will do whatever his uncle wants," Christopher reiterated. "And if that means what I'm afraid it does – that he'll ally with Octavius and the Dark, I can't have anything to do with him. You must understand."

"Completely," Dumbledore replied, reassuringly. "Although we can't be entirely sure that Professor Malfoy is working for Grindelwald, you know."

"But Matthew –"

"Matthew judges by Octavius' actions towards himself – which are entirely reprehensible, of course, but have no bearing on his present loyalties. He's no angel, of course, and he's certainly been involved in some rather dubious affairs before. And yet all may not be as black as it seems for Quintus."

"What about the background checks?" Christopher asked. "They're bound to turn up something; and with his record…"

"Oh, they'll definitely turn up something," Dumbledore replied. "Quite a lot, I should imagine, and I am familiar with a great deal of his affairs – more than even he, I think, is aware. I still think that it will be best if we contain him here, under our surveillance. If I can persuade the inspectors to allow him to remain, despite his record, I think that could be very helpful to us."

"You have that kind of influence?" Christopher was amazed. "And isn't that _illegal_?"

Albus Dumbledore smiled at him in a positively sheepish fashion. "I have very understanding friends on the Board of Inspectors," he admitted, "who are aware that sometimes, rules must be bent a little. For the greater good."

Not for the first time, Christopher was taken slightly aback by Dumbledore's devious qualities. The Deputy's plan made sense, though, especially when taken into consideration with the notion that he himself had been gradually developing. "These friends of yours," he began slowly, "and your contacts at the Ministry. And the arrangement you have with Matthew…I'm not really sure how to put this, and do tell me to mind my own business if you like, but is this something official? Something sanctioned by the Ministry?"

For the first time since he'd entered the room, Dumbledore gave him a whole-hearted smile. "Well done, Christopher!" he said delightedly. "Although we're not exactly _official_, and the Ministry as a whole knows very little. The Minister, another old friend of mine, and I decided that something rather more innocuous than undercover Aurors would be needed to protect the school in case of any attack," he explained. "So a few chosen comrades and I are doing the best we can to watch and protect."

"And Matthew's one of you?" Christopher asked.

"Oh, yes. He's been invaluable. But what I was wondering, my dear boy, was whether or not you would like to join us?"

A sudden, loud knock on the door prevented Christopher from answering as Matthew Seraphim entered almost immediately. "Am I too early?" the Head of Gryffindor asked earnestly. "Only I've been hassled by at least five members of my Quidditch team in the past half hour, and I need an escape. It doesn't matter where I go – they always seem to find me."

"Quite all right, Matthew," Dumbledore said calmly, "although perhaps a little early. Christopher and I were just discussing our little group. Do come and sit down."

"Oh," said Matthew, moving towards the table, "oh. Are you in, then?"

"I don't know," Christopher said honestly. "I'd like to ask a few questions first."

"I would have been surprised if you had not," the Deputy Head nodded. "Joining anything without full knowledge is always – unwise."

"Unless it's us," Matthew added. "You can trust us."

Christopher looked at them both, at Matthew's earnest expression, at the oddly inscrutable Albus Dumbledore, and nodded. "Alright," he said, slowly. "Why me?"

The Deputy Head smiled brilliantly. "Well, the obvious answer is of course – why not?"

"But I haven't got any wonderful or special talents," Christopher pointed out, "I'm not subtle, I'm not particularly observant, I'm not exceptionally gifted at duelling – unless I sang my opponents to sleep, or something," he added ruefully. That particular incident seemed like a lifetime ago.

"It's not your talents we're after," Matthew said gently, "it's who you are, idiot. We know you, we trust you, we know you're one of us."

"Do you want to see Grindelwald and his ilk stopped?" the Deputy Head added. "From the bottom of your heart?"

"Of _course_ I do," Christopher said indignantly.

"That's all we need from you."

"But it's not exactly going to help us win a war, is it, just wanting him stopped," Christopher replied sceptically.

Dumbledore chuckled. "Alas, no. But you needn't worry yourself about having to play a major role yet, young Christopher, we have matters well in hand at present."

"So, er, what exactly _am _I supposed to do?" It all sounded extremely vague to him. "Or do I just sit and listen into conversations over cups of tea?" He hadn't meant to sound quite so acerbic.

"Well, actually," Matthew said then, eyeing him speculatively, "you'd probably bring a fresh perspective to some of the things that have been happening lately."

"What things?"

Albus Dumbledore sighed. "You won't have heard about this," he said, "but there was an attack on the Ministry a few nights ago."

Christopher stared at him. Then kept on staring. "No prizes for guessing who was responsible, I bet," he said, after he'd taken it in. "What happened? And how was it covered up?"

"It was easily covered up because nothing actually _happened_," Matthew said. "The intruders – they didn't do anything. Smashed a few windows, made a few threatening noises – then disappeared."

"Grindelwald, I presume?" Christopher asked. 

"Actually, it was us," the Deputy Head said, almost apologetically. "Well, not personally, but we were responsible."

"_You_ broke into the Ministry?" the Chantwork teacher asked in disbelief. "Can I ask _why?_"

Matthew shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "To speed things up a little," he explained. "Copernicus wants to act. But he can't do anything without a majority vote, you see, and he found it difficult enough to get the few measures that have been taken passed. And whilst the Ministry's dancing around pretending nothing's happening, Grindelwald is doing God-knows-what. We're practically sitting ducks."

"It's a very _Slytherin_ plan, isn't it?" Christopher murmured.

Dumbledore beamed. "It helps when there's one in the family. Young Aberforth has been quite the blessing."

"Wasn't he the one who –" the Chantwork teacher started, then stopped abruptly. It probably wasn't the brightest idea to dredge up the Dumbledore family scandal.

Albus didn't seem at all bothered, though. "Yes, that unfortunate incident with the goat," he said, directing his gaze to the heavens. "Although there _was _a perfectly rational explanation … I'm sure he'll share it with the rest of the world when he's good and ready."

"Do you disapprove?" Matthew interrupted, eyeing Christopher shrewdly. "About the Ministry thing?"

He thought about it. "No. But do you think it will work?"

Dumbledore gave him a resigned smile. "We hope so," he said. "I don't want war in Britain – nobody in their right mind _would – _but it's coming. And we have to be prepared."

*

Aurelius studied the French girl in silence, watching her profile as she worked. For a number of reasons, she and Remy had taken to sitting with him when they found each other in the library. He was pleasantly surprised to realize that this arrangement suited him well; he appreciated being around people fluent in his mother's tongue, who were familiar with his mother's family, history and country. He'd sooner have bitten off his tongue than deny his birthright as a Snape, of course, but it was more than a little refreshing to be able to express his mother's heritage as well.

It wasn't just that, either. It was, and he accepted this too, also somewhat liberating. To be away from Richard, Constance and the whole complicated tangle they'd managed to spin – or rather, that Constance had managed to spin – over the past few months. It was good being away from the very thought of Tom Riddle, and Aurelius' own decision to let Constance do whatever she wanted.

So it wasn't as difficult as he'd thought, forging some kind of friendship with Camille and Remy. He liked their company. It was an enjoyable task, although he never let himself forget that there was more to it than simple companionship. He wasn't rushing into it, either, he knew he'd have to make his approach slowly, delicately – and back off swiftly if he was, in fact, barking up the wrong tree. He'd been working on the pair of them gradually, ever since the attack on Guernsey. From the occasional comment he'd dropped here and there he'd worked out that even if Camille and Remy _weren't _ affiliated with the Vichy Collaboration, they certainly weren't crying themselves to sleep at night over it.

"How are the students grouped in Beauxbatons?" he asked Remy, during a History of Magic lesson that had reached heady new heights of tedium. He could see Constance flicking paper pellets at Richard across the classroom, her hair glinting in the sunlight. He shifted slightly; he didn't need any distractions. "Are there Houses, like here?"

He knew the answer, obviously, his mother had told him plenty of stories about her time at Beauxbatons. He was working up to something, though, and this was as good a way as any to begin.

"No, not Houses," Remy replied, flashing him a careless smile. The French boy's eyes were glinting with amusement, probably at the complete transparency of the opening. "I'm surprised your mother never told you," he continued, "she _was_ Captain of the Girls' Quarters, after all."

"Oh," Aurelius said, innocently, "she may have mentioned something about it. The sexes are separated, aren't they?"

"From the day they start school," Remy answered, playing along. "And then each group is further divided by ability. We don't have a Sorting Ceremony like yours, though. Only intelligence and aptitude tests."

"Stops idiots holding up the classes, I suppose," Aurelius murmured balefully. "And I suppose there's less silliness if boys and girls aren't in lessons together."

Camille snickered then, drawing their attention to her. "Oh, not always," she said, laughing softly. "Girls can be ever so – silly – without boys around, believe me."

"I imagine it's not so different for the boys with certain proclivities," Aurelius said, eyeing Richard Marlowe in a disgruntled fashion.

"But why do you ask?" Remy continued. "After all, I'm sure Grindelwald's made a number of changes to the system since his lot took over."

"Curiosity, mainly," Aurelius answered. "I find it so hard to imagine that had things been slightly different, I might never have been a Slytherin. House loyalties, they last longer than school here. I can't imagine it being any other way."

"Oh, but surely you'd have been evacuated out of Beauxbatons like us, if you'd been properly French and all," Camille said, all wide eyes and sweetness. "And then you'd have been a Slytherin again!"

"Perhaps, perhaps," Aurelius said neutrally. "I'm not sure _what_ my parents would have chosen, I must say. Everything would have altered if we lived over there. A Slytherin by any other name is still an ambitious little sod – perhaps my family would be better off with the Vichy people. Perhaps not."

A muscle in Remy's cheek twitched slightly. "Not with the Resistance being sneaky enough to start murdering the families of all involved with the Collaboration," he pointed out, "I imagine you'd have been evacuated regardless."

And that, Aurelius thought, was very much what he wanted to hear. It gave him more than enough to work with. He'd not been able to discuss this matter with Quintus, even if he'd wanted to. It'd been some time since their last late night Potions-making session. Quintus had seemed, not absent minded exactly, but certainly distracted. Although he never lost his focus, there'd been a very vague look in his eyes as he handled ingredients that would have had both he and his cousin shut away in Azkaban for quite some time had the Ministry caught them.

Quintus hadn't even seemed particularly concerned about that. He'd asked Aurelius if he wanted to help, had given him a summary of just what they were making and what the consequences would be with an air of almost complete indifference. He hadn't even raised an eyebrow at Aurelius' enthusiastic response.

Wondering if Quintus' distracted state would let him get away with asking certain pertinent questions, Aurelius had casually wondered aloud what the Ministry intended to do with the Sustenance Potion that they were making.

His cousin had looked at him, half exasperated, half something else. "It's not for the Ministry," the older man had answered repressively, his eyebrows lowering into a frown. 

Aurelius digested that, silenced for a moment but not deterred by his cousin's uncommunicative state. "I can't imagine my father required it," he said next, emphasizing the possessive slightly. After all, he, not Quintus, should be the one kept informed now.

The Potions Master didn't exactly slam the bowl he'd been holding onto the table, but there had been a rather definite thud as he straightened up and glared at Aurelius. "It's got nothing to do with the Ministry. And it's got nothing to do with the family. This is – personal."

Quintus wasn't looking his best, Aurelius noticed then, he was much paler than usual and the dark circles around his eyes made him look like a deathly owl with an addiction to illegal substances. 

Still. "So Grindelwald doesn't come into the equation at all, then?"

Quintus had looked at him sharply, then, but shook his head. "No," the Potions master replied slowly, "this is a purely personal matter. To help someone in need," he'd added, smiling bitterly for reasons that wouldn't become clear to Aurelius 'til much, much later.

It probably wasn't the wisest move, then, continuing his inquiry, but Aurelius hadn't been brought up to put his family's interests first and foremost for nothing. And he hadn't put a lot of time and effort into his History of Magic assignment for nothing. It was almost too easy to put two and two together and come up with – "Professor Haven? Are you doing this for her?"

Quintus looked pained, then resigned. "I should have known you wouldn't let it rest," he muttered.

"_Is_ she a visionweaver then?" Aurelius asked, considering the ramifications of that. Grindelwald had been after visionweavers since practically forever and that meant that he'd be after Professor Haven eventually, and _that_ made it more than a personal matter, whatever Quintus said.

"No," his cousin said flatly. "Seers have short lifespans. If you were better versed in the arts of Divination you would know that already."

Aurelius scowled, thinking about all of Constance's enthusiastic ramblings about how fantastic Divination was without Lockhart. "So why are you making this for her? When there's such a risk –" he broke off, seeing something in his cousin's face that he'd never seen before. "Oh. Well. I'll just keep shredding these mer-eggs, then." _And I won't even ask what Octavius Malfoy has to say about all this. _Dear gods, that was definitely something to be placed in the Don't Tell Constance list. Although, and he knew this to be a most base and unworthy – and therefore satisfying – thought, it was nice to see a Snape screwing over a Malfoy, rather than the reverse. Even if he had given Constance permission for her antics – it was nice.

He'd finished with the mer-egg, had decapitated a Four-Headed Frog with relish, and was cheerfully removing a mer-baby's spine when he thought of something that might lighten the atmosphere somewhat. "The background checks, how have they been going?"

Quintus didn't look up from the gently bubbling cauldron. "I got through it. Well, there shouldn't be _any_ surprise about that. The least the Ministry could've done to compensate for the inspection, and so on."

"Not that you had anything to hide, of course," Aurelius commented dryly, smirking at the ever so slightly illegal ingredients arranged neatly on the table.

Quintus flushed. "Well, I heard that they were taking it very seriously. Looking into very minor and very youthful discretions. Checking school records too, that kind of thing."

Aurelius started to laugh, then. It was just too precious. "You mean to tell me," he snorted, "whilst we're making yet another naughty potion that you were worried about that mushroom crop you and your friend tried to raise back in school?"

His cousin sneered at him. "Hallucinogenic substances have the power to disturb the fragile human psyche in ways even we can't fully comprehend," he said loftily. "The Ministry couldn't be _blamed_ for having doubts about my sanity and behaviour if they'd stumbled across such information."

The Slytherin snickered. "Except you didn't even get to try them out," he said gleefully, "because you got _caught._"

"…Shut up, Aurelius."

"Are all the staff in the clear, then? Seeing as the Ministry's been so thorough?"

"No," Quintus said, frowning again. "Octavius Malfoy's been confined to school grounds."

"_Really? _ Why?"

"I imagine that's information privy only to the Headmaster, the inspectors, and Octavius himself," the Potions Master said thoughtfully. "And it isn't common knowledge, Aurelius, so treat it accordingly. I'm not even sure whether his family know."

"So he won't be supervising any Hogsmeade visits, then," Aurelius said, ignoring his cousin's unnecessary reminder. "Pity, if it were _me_ out there I'd rather have him alongside. As opposed to idiots like Seraphim. He'd probably just leave us to fend for ourselves, anyway, and go rushing off to defend his poor beleaguered Gryffindors. He probably holds their hands and wipes them down after they've been to the toilets," he added bitterly, "but he wouldn't lift a finger for _us._"

Quintus hadn't replied.

*

With the end of year exams not far away, the atmosphere within the school was predictably tense. Even though the sixth years weren't facing their OWLs again – thankfully – and were still a year away from the final NEWT examinations, they were still considerably fraught. Even the fact that Hogsmeade visits had been denied them due to the Grindelwald threat was no longer a major grievance; many of the students were too busy in the library, or in disused classrooms to care. The seventh years especially, despite being the only ones allowed to go, had taken to staying behind to work. 

Constance wouldn't have mentioned it to anyone other than her brother and Tom, but she was almost grateful that the Ministry had refused to allow Octavius Malfoy to supervise Hogsmeade visits, even though they'd not been able to pin anything concrete onto him. They'd been cross about it when the news had leaked down to them, of course, it being rather a slight on her uncle's character, but as he was more than willing to spend his time assisting their own private study sessions, it was something of a blessing.

They met and worked in the Zalaras Wing during weekends, and Constance had been delighted to finally work with her uncle. Although he rarely came to the late-night meetings, due to his other obligations, it felt in some strange way as though her family were finally _home_. As she looked at Tom, flushed with exertion, she knew that he felt it too. This was where they were supposed to be, here, with Tom Marvolo Riddle. 

Casting her first Unforgivable in front of her uncle's critical gaze had been something of an interesting experience, though. She'd expected Tom to have tutored her in this privately – but, of course, he had had to learn himself, and it had been her uncle who'd taught him. Who better to oversee their joint progress, then, than Octavius Malfoy? 

At least, that had been the theory. In practice she felt that she would have been a _lot_ more comfortable had she been able to practice in front of Tom alone. Her Imperius Curse was weak, as her uncle told her bluntly. She was lacking in both brute mental force, which would suffice for an effective yet unsubtle result, and the kind of insinuating power that allowed Tom to overwhelm her with very little effort. She'd managed to cast it on several animals brought specifically for that purpose, but had failed miserably with people. Her uncle wasn't especially happy with her inability to withstand the curse, either. She could hold her own against a sole casting of the curse, although there were times when her fatigue meant that her resistance was even lower, but when both her uncle and Tom joined forces against her, it was a different story. Two minutes resistance, and then a sudden collapse. She hoped she'd improve with practice. Although it was entirely possible that that particular curse just was not her forte. Her uncle had explained to her that each of the Unforgivables would vary in strength and precision according to the individual mindset, or personality, of the caster. He hadn't gone into great detail, but he'd said enough. Constance didn't feel especially thrilled to know that she wasn't particularly strong in the self-discipline department, or in will-power, but could accept it. After all, there were other curses. She'd be taught them in time, and although she felt she ought to practice in advance, there simply wasn't time. It was better to master what she was already struggling with than try to spread herself too thinly.

There had been rather a lot to occupy her mind, of late.

"Oh, very funny I'm sure," she muttered huffily, after having found herself tapdancing around the practice room as a result of her uncle's curse. 

"You need to focus," Octavius Malfoy replied calmly, lowering his wand and turning to speak to Tom.

She'd never have dared do something like this before, still wouldn't dare do it if she thought about it for longer than a second or so, but the memory of her first training session with Tom spurred her on – and her uncle _had_ let down his guard, he wasn't even looking at her – and so she pointed her wand, channelled all her strength and shouted "_Imperio_!"

The surprise in her uncle's eyes as his head snapped back to face her was gratifying, but she couldn't afford to dwell on that pleasant distraction for long. Even though he should have been unprepared, had been taken by surprise, she could feel the deep, still resistance of his mind. She didn't turn her head to look at Tom, but kept her eyes locked with her uncle's, willing him to submit to her in this.

For a moment, at least, she thought she had him. _Bow, _she urged, _bow to me_. Just a little thing, although it seemed appropriate for an Imperius-command. She shaped her thought like an arrow, and felt it batter against his defences. The smooth mental shield he seemed to possess so easily shuddered against the impact of her demand; she saw his face tighten as he held on. _Bow._

I think not, little niece, he said then, sounding almost amused, and then she felt his mind turn glassy and the tentative hold she'd had over him was lost. 

__

Blast.

"Well," Octavius said out loud, smoothing down his robes, "thank you. That was - quite illuminating."

Constance scowled.

"As I said before," he continued, "you need more focus. And a different style. When a battering ram will not suffice, you need to learn how to be a slow, steady trickle of water, eating away at the other person's will. That was, however, an improvement."

With that, he nodded once more to Tom, then brushed past her to the door, glaring in a not-entirely-displeased fashion as he went. She watched him leave, waited for an instant to gather herself, then turned to face the Heir of Slytherin.

One eyebrow raised, it was nonetheless difficult to determine what he was thinking. "Illuminating indeed," he murmured. "Not entirely unexpected, of course."

"Well _really_," Constance began, "wasn't it you who told me that nobody's going to be fair and open in a real fight? I'm sure my uncle's pulled dirtier tricks than that in his time, anyway. I don't see what was so illuminating about it."

Tom grinned at her, boyishly, and she felt herself growing distinctly warmer. "You look extremely vicious when you're concentrating," he said, changing the subject. _Not_ that she minded.

"Can't help it if I'm scowling," she retorted mulishly. "It's what I do best."

"Is that _entirely_ accurate?" Tom Riddle answered swiftly, his grin deepening. "I'm sure you have many talents."

"Oh, lots of them," Constance responded, smirking. "I'm charming and quite accomplished. _You_ should know that."

He gazed at her a second longer, then, with a swift striking movement that startled her, darted forwards to pin her against the soft walls of the practice room - cushioned they may have been, but she was still winded by the force of the impact. A faint noise of protest escaped her, and was immediately smothered by his hand, warm and dry and pressed firmly against her mouth.

"Oh, I do, I do," he murmured, his voice practically a purr and his face so close to her own. "But it's your complete inability to put up any form of resistance that I appreciate _most_ about you."

She tried to speak then, but felt the pressure of his hand increase slightly. Somehow, she knew that he was only exerting a fraction of his true strength as his body pinned hers to the wall, and his free hand grasped the wrist of her wand-arm. Tightly; it hurt, and she felt her grip on her wand weaken. He didn't miss her sudden sharp intake of breath as he squeezed, harder, until she had no choice but to drop her wand. 

She _hated_ being without her wand, hated feeling so defenseless. But could she really try to fight back against _him_? She'd never held back in a duel, but she was less experienced, he could easily defeat her – to fight him physically would be different, somehow. And he was her superior, of sorts. 

"Yes," he breathed, his eyes burning into her, as if he'd read her mind, "remember this."

And then his grip on her lessened, and his wand was pointed directly at her, and then she felt the all-too-familiar dreamlike effect of the Imperius curse wash over her. 

__

Don't do a thing, he said, and then his body was against hers, pushing her back against the wall again, his mouth descending, teeth meeting painfully in the soft skin of her throat. _Be still._

Without any thought of doing otherwise, she went limp in his arms, passive and entirely open to his vicious embrace. She could feel her skin tingling as his hands roamed freely over her body, ripping her blouse open with no regard for the buttons, pinching viciously at her exposed breasts. It hurt, yes, but in a good way, a pleasurable burning sensation filled her even though she wasn't allowed to respond. It almost heightened the intensity, really, as she fought to obey and remain still.

He pulled her down to the floor with him, not particularly gently, she saw him grin and then his lips met hers fiercely and he was on top of her, crushing her. She felt something deep within her stir, her body acknowledging his warmth, his weight, against her will – or against _his_ will, it was almost impossible to tell where she ended and he began now.

She shut her eyes and let him touch her as he wanted, as he knew she wanted him to, felt her body moving against his and then she couldn't ignore it anymore, despite the subtle command imprinted into her to be still. With a sigh of pleasure, her arms gathered him in and pulled him closer. 

It wasn't until afterwards, as she lay trembling on the floor beside him, that she realized the curse had gone. It hadn't been lifted; it had simply gone. She'd broken it – during –

"I wondered whether that'd work," he said, amused. "If you had the right incentives."

- and there must be an exceptionally dirty joke to fit this situation _somewhere, _only she couldn't think of one. "Well," she said, still breathless. "It's nice to know that I _can_ do it. Only, you're not going to be able to do – that kind of thing – to me when my uncle casts the curse, are you?"

"You sound almost hopeful," he said, smirking. "It's charming."

"Mmm. They say hope springs eternal. Pity I can't do a blasted thing about the Imperius under – normal circumstances, isn't it?"

"You'll improve with practice," he said, rolling over to retrieve his shirt. 

"And I'm sure I'll have plenty of opportunities," she said gloomily. She examined her ruined blouse regretfully. "Look what you did to my buttons."

He ignored her, dressing himself swiftly then striding to the door. "Hurry up and dress," he ordered, "then come through here. We have things to talk about."

*

"And Marcus finishes this June – he's not happy about this conscription thing. Not that it's at all likely that he'll have to go, but that's not the point. He – and Father too – find the whole idea really insulting. I mean, what has the Ministry _ever_ done for our family that we should support it?" she asked dramatically. Despite the lateness of the hour, they'd consumed far too much tea to think about sleeping, and she was still excited about having flung off the Imperius Curse. Besides, there was a lot to discuss.

"Given you a certain amount of leeway over the centuries," he suggested dryly, one hand resting lightly on her shoulder. 

"True up to a point, but still. They turned very repressive at the end of last century," Constance said, hoping she sounded surer of her facts than she felt. History had never been her favourite subject, and although her father had often proclaimed the evils of Ministry policy she'd never really paid as much attention to him as Marcus had. "I bet we'd all have a lot more freedom under Grindelwald."

Tom's lip curled scathingly. "It depends on how you define freedom, I'm sure," he said coolly. "The current system certainly isn't getting in my way."

She looked at him. "I'm not saying I'd rather Grindelwald won – I just don't think it would affect _us_ that much. He's bound to want the support of families like mine; and it's not like he's got any scruples about the use of Dark Magic, is it? He'd never have got anywhere without it."

"And by that reasoning, he's not likely to want anyone else practicing it," the Heir of Slytherin pointed out. "He's bound to be a lot more efficient at rooting it out than the Ministry – not that _that's_ saying much. You've seen the newspapers. You've heard the stories. Does Grindelwald sound like a liberal?"

He was right. 

Constance felt herself flushing. "He wouldn't want any challenges, of course not," she said. "So – is that what we are, then? A challenge?"

"By the very nature of who I am, yes," Tom replied impatiently. "Salazar Slytherin's Heir has a greater claim to this country than anyone else. Grindelwald knows nothing of that, fortunately, but I'd say his regime would be a lot harder to overthrow than our Ministry."

She mulled that over, staring into the fire. "You're aiming for that?" she asked quietly, more than a little awed by his audacity. There had been no serious challenge to the stability of wizarding government for – well, she couldn't actually remember, but it wasn't something to be taken lightly. And she couldn't for the life of her figure out how he'd do it, not with the war on. "When?"

"Not tomorrow," he said with a tinge of sarcasm. "Not for years. It will take far longer than you imagine to set my people up in the Ministry, and I cannot do anything myself until I am ready. You know the state of affairs amongst the pureblood families. So much corruption – I doubt even half of them would respond to my call if the Ministry collapsed. Not the way I am now. They'd try and _control_ me, and take power for themselves."

"What do you mean?" Constance asked tentatively, noting the undercurrent of venom in his voice. "You're the Heir – surely there's nothing that would impress the Slytherin families more."

Tom shook his head, frowning. "It's not enough to be the Heir, although I'm sure it would have sufficed only a century ago. But you know I'm going away, after we finish here – when I return I should have something to _really_ tip the balance in my favour."

She looked at him expectantly.

"Imagine," he continued softly, "the fall of the Ministry. Confusion, chaos everywhere, people living in fear, not knowing which family to turn to for leadership. The great families would tear themselves apart in the struggle for power. Who better to claim the country for himself but a man made immortal, a man with a powerful group of followers behind him, a man whose bloodlines lead straight back to Salazar Slytherin?"

"_Immortal_?" Constance repeated stupidly. She'd known he was ambitious, he'd have to be – but _this_? It beggared belief. It went beyond anything she'd ever dreamed of – and she had only ever dreamed, had never seriously imagined that one day such dreams could become reality. Tom was the Heir, she thought she had learned to accept that, but it seemed she'd given very little thought to what that actually meant. It wouldn't be enough – of course it wouldn't be enough for him to sit and bask in his ancestor's laurels. He had a role to play today, in her lifetime, and it was only fitting that he should be as great, as terrifying and as powerful as Salazar Slytherin himself had been.

It wasn't so much that she doubted he could do it, rather that she was, perhaps, a little afraid of him. "I believe you," Constance said, almost to herself. She knew enough about him now to know that he was capable of things she could only dream about. Though that could be a little frightening – _or perhaps_, she thought, _that isn't the right word_. Awe inspiring?

"That's irrelevant at the minute," Tom said then, startling her. "What matters is that the Ministry wins _this_ war. It'll make everything so much more complicated, otherwise."

Constance did not voice the thought that things were already far too complicated for her. "The Ministry should," she said with authority, although she really didn't have that good a grasp on the politics of the war. "If all the families back it –"

"I don't want all the families backing the Ministry," he interrupted her shortly. "It'll work out much better if some families aren't rewarded at the end of the war. It might make them more open to suggestion, later."

That concept at least she could grasp without difficulty. "You want them to be – less powerful?"

He nodded.

"But how?" she wondered aloud. "How can you do that? How can you influence people's allegiances here, at school?" It seemed an impossible task, even for someone as determined as Tom. Then again, compared to gaining immortality, it would no doubt be a piece of cake.

"I am served by _very_ capable members of your family," he said, all irritation seemingly erased. "You should know that by now. Trust me, it's all taken care of."

********

For the Reviewers

TheStrangeOne: I am a useless spaz and I don't update unless I'm FORCED to. So I can't call you anything for delays in reviewing – I'm just glad that you DO. And that you're not dead, and stuff. Glad you like the dialogue, it's the thing I'm most confident with – which is why all the characters tend to ramble on about very little. But that'll all change in the next chapter (also known as Chapter DOOOM.)

Sanyin: Ee, a long review, I like lots. The future IS depressing for House Slytherin, isn't it? But – it's fun to write about. I'm going to be ever so cruel, but it's only because I CARE. Aurelius, poor thing, will be colossally screwed over by the end of part II. Which bodes ever so well for Severus. And as for Tom, well. I blame his Albanian experiments for what happens to him. Can't tell you what happens to Constance, though. Draco's _heard_ of her, put it that way. (So too has Ginny Weasley. In my universe, anyway.) And yes, her name doesn't quite fit with the rest of the Malfoy clan, but I liked the Constant/Bad Faith connotations. It suits her. It was Octavius' idea, oddly enough. ;)

Wizzabee, SailorMoonRose, Daria B: I apologize for the long, long wait, and I do hope you're still around to read this.

Paradox01: Hello. I see you on Livejournal. Tom's thoughts about Constance, well. He likes her well enough, although it's the fact that she's a Malfoy that he _really _likes. It's what she represents that really does it for him. Planning a one off Riddle POV-piece, set during the Moaning Myrtle incident to explore Tom further, actually. With lots of Octavius thrown in, because it's set in the Chainworld. Perhaps it'll be written before 2006! Oh, and there's lots of Dumbledore/Grindelwald coming up. The Day of the Lords is approaching, and all that.

Sari: Thank you! And here it is.


	19. Bloodlust

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. With the exception of Tom Riddle, Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall Professor Binns and Armando Dippet, the characters belong to me. The descendants of the Malfoys, Snapes, Blacks and Potters belong to J K Rowling, but I'm sure you could figure that out for yourself. 

**Acknowledgments:** Faith. This has been the most difficult chapter I've ever written (so I dread to think how vexing I'll find writing TSC: II) and I wouldn't have finished it all without some helpful bullying from you. Um. Sorry about the wait. I think the uber-Jossing in HBP & DH sort of killed the joy for me. Ehh, whatever. It'll all be over soon.

The Serpentine Chain Part One 

Chapter Nineteen – Bloodlust

Quintus had counted himself fortunate that he'd passed the background checks imposed upon all staff by the Ministry, yet as he led a gaggle of overly excitable seventh years out along the road that led to Hogsmeade he found himself questioning this. Exam nerves took their toll on all but the most stoic students; yet the noise this particular rabble was making was quite ridiculous. Couldn't they at least try to be a bit more subdued? Any breaks were welcome from frantic cramming sessions, he supposed, and most of the seventh years had declined previous Hogsmeade visits – choosing instead to let their hair down on the one occasion he had to supervise. With a terrible headache that didn't seem as if it were going to go any time soon, as well. _And_ he'd left his trusty supply of painkillers back in his rooms.

And it had started to rain.

There were times when he thought Octavius Malfoy must be laughing at them all, ban or no ban. This was one of them.

"Quintus. Quintus!"

He turned. "What?" he asked, not particularly caring whether or not he sounded like death. Which he probably did. He could feel his temples throbbing, a dull, steady ache that he just _knew_ was going to get steadily worse. Then he saw who it was. "Oh," he said. "Hello."

"You don't seem at all well," Elspeth Haven said, smiling sympathetically.

"Headache," he replied, flapping his hand dismissively. "Nothing important. Nothing that won't be cured by sitting down with a drink or six in the pub, anyway."

She smirked. "The ever reliable cure for all ills. And by the sound of it, I think your sentiments are echoed by everyone here – at least we won't have to walk them around every single bloody shop in the village this time. They want one thing and one thing only."

"Liquid death," Quintus said with satisfaction. "The kind that comes in an unlabeled bottle, turns your liver bright green, and cures all head pain because by the time you've finished drinking, you're already unconscious. Excellent."

Elspeth looked at him, amused. "You're going to be fun in the morning."

"Tomorrow morning will not exist," he said, feeling much more cheerful. "And I bet carting home all these students tonight will be much more enjoyable if I'm thoroughly intoxicated."

"Oh dear," the Divination teacher said, looking rueful. "There'll be tears from some of them, you mark my words."

"I hope so," Quintus replied. "It'll be suitable punishment for what they're doing to my head right now. All that bloody chatter, I'm too delicate for this today."

"Why didn't you go off sick, then?" she said, asking the really rather obvious question.

He sighed. "Not allowed. We all have to take our turn doing this, apparently. Even if we're dying on our feet and there are plenty of other people around to take our place. I sometimes wonder whether Dippet's gone completely mad, you know."

"Oh, the world is cruel to you," she said, laughing. "Cheer up, and I might think about buying you a drink."

"Will you buy us a drink too?" interrupted one of the Slytherin students, who'd been walking not too far behind. Felix DuPré, Quintus noted, alongside Marcus Malfoy and several others. "We've been working far too hard and we might die."

"I can only imagine how terrible a shock hard work has been to your system, DuPré," the Divination teacher retorted, not unkindly. "Perhaps it's a restorative potion you need, instead of a drink?"

"…I've not been working _that_ hard," Felix said quickly.

Quintus raised an eyebrow. Elspeth folded her arms.

"Because that's the best thing to say to impress your teachers," Marcus Malfoy interjected, grinning. The resemblance to his uncle was disconcerting when he smiled. "Remind us, do, why they ever bothered to make you Head Boy?"

"I'm the friendly face of Slytherin," Felix replied mildly. "I'm just better at dealing with lesser mortals than the rest of you."

Marcus snorted. "You're _something_, all right," he said, eyes sparkling wickedly.

"Also, I didn't get caught tormenting innocent members of our fellow houses," Felix said, his face serene. "Clearly, I'm also cleverer than the rest of you."

"Clearly," Elspeth said dryly. "Perhaps I should remind you that there is a _teacher_ from one of our fellow houses present."

"Oh, but Professor Snape knows I'd never do anything to hurt Ravenclaw," the Head Boy said, looking positively angelic. "After all, they're almost as good as we are – and you're practically a Slytherin yourself, sir."

"Serpentine by association," Quintus agreed gravely. "I hope the taint isn't too strong."

Elspeth grinned wickedly. "Can't taint the wicked. We're already filthy."

"In a purely spiritual sense. We do wash," Marcus reassured him. "Frequently."

Quintus laughed as they crossed the narrow footpath, and down into the village proper. "I should hope so!"

They picked their way across the cobbles, not stopping for the girls in ridiculous shoes, and gathered around the bench in the market square.

"Thirty two, thirty four…" Elspeth counted the students with a frown. "Three missing. McKay, Perkins and the Bones girl."

Feeling rather like a border collie, Quintus set off at a vigorous jog. The pounding in his head had subsided somewhat; he hoped the exercise would help. With a few sharp words he rounded up the sulking teenagers and nagged them into a run.

Elspeth greeted him with a satisfied smile. "All accounted for. Still fancy that drink?"

* * *

He could not have said – and nor, for that matter, could any of the others, not with any real certainty – when he first felt that something was not quite right. The momentary silence in what was usually a bustling, noisy street went unnoticed in the rowdy pub filled with excited students. The loud crack was dismissed as being one of the many incidents which were a fact of life in Hogsmeade; some idiot letting off a firecracker several months too early, some unfaithful husband getting hexed straight into St. Mungo's, perhaps. It was, however, blindingly obvious to even the most intoxicated student when things went terribly, appallingly wrong. Because that was when the screaming started. 

It was Amber Vetinari who heard it first. Sitting in the window seat, deep in quiet conversation with Felix DuPré, she was closest to the source of the awful noise, and she was the first to look through the pub windows to see what was taking place on the street. She'd moved quickly over to Quintus, touching his sleeve lightly, to break the news whilst Felix had headed straight for Elspeth. _There's something happening outside, sir. Something bad. There's screaming –_

Even as his stomach turned over, he was grateful for the warning. It gave him ten seconds to decide what to do before the screaming became louder; loud enough to silence the most raucous of his students, loud enough to make Gilly Grey behind the bar blanch and cross herself. And then panic had erupted within the pub.

"oh god oh god oh god it's him isn't it oh god" wailed someone whose name he never could remember, as two petrified looking boys made an incredibly stupid dash for the door. What they thought they were doing, Quintus had absolutely no idea, but he'd be buggered sideways with a spoon if he let them go.

"he's coming for us oh god no…"

_"Silence!"_ he'd heard himself bellow, his voice cutting through everything. "And sit down, all of you," he continued, in a tone of voice he'd not even realized he possessed. "_All_ of you," he added, looking at the two boys by the door.

He'd felt Elspeth Haven behind him, then. "Gilly," the Divination teacher said, amazingly calm. "Is there a way out through the cellar?"

Gilly Grey looked at them, terrified, and Quintus sighed inwardly. She was going to be no use whatsoever. "No," the landlady whispered, white with fear. "A trapdoor, yes. But it doesn't go anywhere. There's just a little room." She was twisting her hands, over and over again. "Just a little room."

"How big?" Elspeth asked patiently. "Will the children _fit_ in there, Gilly?"

Gilly's eyes flickered over them nervously. "They – they might," she began.

"They will," Quintus interrupted firmly.

"Hey!"

He'd turned, not in the mood to be questioned, and certainly not by an old, red nosed idiot with a paunch the size of Europe. "What is it?"

"It's all very well them having the secret room," the middle aged man said, "but what about the rest of us?"

"Us?" Elspeth said scathingly. "You're a little old to be a Hogwarts pupil, aren't you?"

The man's face, if possible, had become even redder at that, and his decidedly unattractive wife had stood up furiously.

"That is not fair!" he'd said. "You can't seriously expect us to wait here with – with God knows what outside!"

"We'll just kick the children out into the fucking street then, shall we?" Quintus had snapped, patience running out completely. "Shut up and sit down, and if you're about to piss your fucking pants, get under the table!"

There was a thin, somewhat hysterical laugh from behind him at that, instantly stifled.

"How _dare_ you speak to me like that? I shall notify –"

Whoever it was that the irritating nitwit would have notified, however, was not to be revealed, as a muttered _Stupefy_ from behind Quintus sent him sprawling over the table. There was a second's pause, then, staring in badly concealed terror at Marcus Malfoy's wand, the nitwit's wife sat down and was silent, her eyes bulging.

"Thank you, Marcus," Elspeth Haven murmured, then turned to address the rest of the students. "If you could please follow Gilly Grey into the cellar? Without rushing, screeching, or bawling. Professor Snape has a foul headache."

Quietly – or as quietly as possible – the students made their way behind the bar, led by Gilly and shepherded by Amber and Felix. The other patrons of the pub who, quite frankly, were none of Quintus' concern, were busy making themselves as secure as possible, closing the shutters on the pub windows and sealing them hastily, turning over a few tables to use as barricades if the seals were broken. Someone was busy looking for Floo Powder, another was wondering (loudly) when the Aurors were coming, and if they'd even been notified.

"Actually, that's a good point," Elspeth said, frowning. "We'd do well to send for them ourselves, or at least send for some form of help. I doubt anyone out there's in a fit state to do so – and, well. We're probably the most capable wizards here. Depressing, I know, but likely to be true."

He'd paused for a second, then remembered something Flavia had told him after watching a particularly vicious fight in the Hog's Head. "The mirror!" he exclaimed. "Behind the counter – it's a direct link to the Ministry."

"I'll take care of it," Elspeth said quickly, and then, "is that the only place it reaches? Not the school?"

It was Marcus Malfoy, for some reason not in the cellar with everyone else, who'd replied. "No – just the Ministry. People usually want Aurors rather than teachers, when something goes wrong."

"I can't imagine why," Quintus said pettishly, as Elspeth sighed and went to use the mirror behind the counter, "and why are you still here?"

"Because someone needs to inform the school," Marcus had answered, not remotely disconcerted, "and I presume you two will be busy enough out there. We can't hide all the students, but I can get out of here without being noticed. And I expect whoever's outside will be too wrapped up with Seraphim and Bloom to detect my Invisibility Charms, anyway."

It was Elspeth who swore then, loudly, startling the young Ministry official in the mirror. "No, that wasn't aimed at you," she'd said venomously, "but if you don't send the Aurors soon it will be, and a lot worse than that as well – it would be Seraphim, wouldn't it, prancing about like an overly excitable Bludger-battered buffoon – no, that wasn't aimed at you either. Oh, just hurry up! We have a bunch of untrained students here, get on with it!" And with that, she dumped the mirror unceremoniously onto the ground, breaking the connection along with the glass.

"If you're going out there," a young-ish witch with dark brown hair said, addressing Quintus, "could you hurry up? I need to get that door sealed, quickly."

"Certainly," Elspeth snapped, before Quintus could answer, "glad you're so eager to help. Marcus, disappear. Now."

Marcus had nodded once, his wand high. Then, with a few muttered words, he vanished. Completely. Quintus had a few seconds to appreciate the perfection of whatever spell the boy had used – Invisibility Charms usually weren't quite that effective, he knew several people who were working on ways to improve them – before his mind returned to the problem at hand. "Come on, then," he'd said to Elspeth, and the invisible Malfoy. And out they'd gone, into the street.

The screaming had stopped some time ago, Quintus realized. Mostly because the people doing the screaming were either dead, or unconscious. He sincerely hoped it was the latter, yet the black clad figures further up the street didn't look particularly reassuring. Nor did the bodies, the shattered glass, or the rubble lying on the ground. He could see Seraphim and Bloom – Bloom looked almost _cheerful_, for pity's sake, she had no right to look so enthused – and about twenty other witches and wizards he didn't recognize hurling hex after curse right back at the invaders.

"Cloak yourself as best you can," he'd started to say, only to find that Elspeth was already barely visible.

He managed a grin. "Pity we're not as good as Marcus, isn't it?"

She looked at him, with an expression he couldn't read. "No. No, I don't want to get hit by mistake. Best our side can see us, I think."

She'd been right, and he swiftly followed suit. Then they headed up the street, and into chaos.

* * *

"Remind me why we're wasting a perfectly good Saturday like this?" 

Constance eyed Richard in amusement. "Because I don't want to fail. And it's not like you've been doing any revision, is it?"

"Not unless you count picking fights with Potter," Aurelius joined in. "In which case he's got plenty of combat experience. We all have. We should do it more often."

Richard grinned, and Constance rolled her eyes. She'd enjoyed that kind of thing, and still did – but there were so many more important things to do, now. "I don't think it counts," she said dryly. "The examiners wouldn't like it."

Aurelius, with a surprisingly good-humoured expression, drummed his fingers impatiently on the desktop. "How late do you think he'll be, anyway?" "

I have no idea," Constance said. "My uncle doesn't tell me his every move, you know."

"Probably hungover," Richard suggested. "Maybe he had another fight with Seraphim at the pub," he added, eyes lighting up.

"I hope not," Constance said, frowning. "They got rather a warning last time. Told to set a good example, that kind of thing."

Richard sighed. "That was setting a good example. I bet half of Slytherin has wanted to do that to Seraphim at one time or another."

Constance couldn't disagree, but glanced at the large clock on the classroom wall. "He's not that late, anyway," she pointed out. "It's only five past."

As if he'd heard their conversation, Octavius Malfoy entered the classroom. Rather less irritably than usual, Constance noted, and felt smug.

"Non-verbal spells for the first hour," her uncle began. "And then I shall see just what else needs improving. On your feet, please."

They stood as one, wands at the ready.

"Marlowe, Snape," Professor Malfoy continued. "When I give the signal, you will attack Constance, using only non-verbal spells. You, Constance, will defend yourself, using the same method. Is that clear?"

Constance nodded, raising her wand as the others followed suit. She stifled the impulse to watch her uncle give the signal, concentrating on the two boys instead. She knew how they fought, they'd fought together many times – but they hadn't been practicing the way she had. Her uncle and the Heir of Slytherin hadn't personally taught them.

"Now."

Aurelius cast the first hex, sending a streak of sickly blue light towards her. Richard's spell followed almost immediately.

Constance moved instinctively, biting back the words as she flipped her wand in a short, sharp circular motion. She grinned as the two spells stopped, seemingly in mid air, and shot back towards the boys.

"Unfair," Richard exclaimed, jumping backwards as he dissolved his spell. "You're not supposed to send stuff back at us!"

Constance beamed, ignoring Aurelius' scowl as he sent a string of silver strands towards her. With only a second's hesitation she dissolved the swiftly forming net, thanking the gods that that was one of the charms she'd been practicing secretly. A simple Shield Charm would not have repelled that curse.

She was not allowed time to gloat, however, as Richard countered her success with a steady stream of jinxes, including a rather nasty one that was only deterred by a number of counter charms. Aurelius, not to be outdone, contributed several vicious Repelling Charms. She reflected them, but the impact on her shields took their toll, and she took several steps backwards.

The boys seemed as irritated by her resistance as she was by their relentless assault; their spells got successively nastier with each minute that passed. She wasn't sure which one of them lost their tempers first; but when a great flaming fireball headed directly towards her, she deflected it right back at them with a hasty Propelling Charm to give it strength. Taken by surprise, the boys darted sideways and the large ball of fire went straight through the classroom wall.

"Ah," Constance said, staring in dismay at the gaping hole in the wall.

"I said defend, not attack," her uncle said, sending a long streak of gold after the fireball. A faint sizzling told them that the ball had been destroyed. He didn't seem too displeased, though; he was half-smiling as he repaired the damage to the wall.

"Sorry," Richard replied contritely. "That was my spell. I didn't realize she was going to send it through the wall, though," he added, sounding somewhat less apologetic.

Constance glared at him. "That could've taken my head off," she snapped. "And it's not my fault you let it past you."

"Not our fault," Aurelius murmured. "We weren't supposed to be defending. We were sticking to the rules."

"See how far that gets you," Constance retorted.

"Enough," her uncle warned them, enough of a threat in his voice to ensure silence. He gave them all a glare that seemed more for effect than any real anger. "Now. We will try it another way. Marlowe, this time you are on your own. Ready?"

The fight began, and as the group had been rearranged, it was slightly less vicious than before. Constance, still smarting, sent a few unpleasant curses in Richard's direction, Aurelius however worked just as hard with her as he had against her.

Eventually – and Constance was not sure if Richard had been defeated sooner than her – her uncle called on them to stop; examining Richard's posture critically and commenting on the variety of spells they had managed to cast.

"You've been practicing," Aurelius muttered, so that only Constance could hear.

She nodded briefly, although she had no intention of explaining just what had been going on. "Why do you think I've been so busy these past few months?" she answered, equally quietly. "I want to do well."

"That'll be why some of those curses you used just now weren't even on the curriculum?"

She'd got a lot better in hiding her feelings, she noted. She hadn't flushed, whereas once she'd have jumped at the chance to expound upon her skills. "Just extra stuff I picked up," she replied, without missing a beat. "It's amazing what you can find in dusty old library books."

"Right," Aurelius said, but he didn't sound convinced.

She thought he was about to question her further – and she couldn't explain that this was down to Tom, not to Aurelius of all people – but her uncle cleared his throat loudly and put a stop to whatever conversation they would have had. Constance looked at him, almost gratefully.

It was, however, a day for interruptions. As the door banged open, to reveal her rather disheveled brother, she caught a glimpse of anxiety in her uncle's eyes.

"What is it?" he snapped.

"Grindelwald, sir," her brother said breathlessly. "In Hogsmeade – Professor Snape sent me back here to get help. I came to you first, though, because…"

Octavius Malfoy didn't give him time to finish his sentence, but told him curtly to alert the Headmaster, then pounded out of the door as if the Hogwarts Express itself was at his heels.

"Oh, gods," Constance said, realization dawning along with a sudden sick feeling in her stomach. "Professor Haven's down there, isn't she?"

Marcus nodded, with a look of worry she'd never seen before. "And your cousin," he added, looking at Aurelius with more than a little sympathy.

"I _know_," Aurelius said, his voice tight as he turned swiftly towards the door, "I'll tell the Headmaster. Richard, with me?"

Richard followed immediately; hurrying to catch up with his friend, without a single backwards glance.

Constance watched them go nervously, then looked at her brother. "Is it bad?"

Marcus nodded. "Quintus and Elspeth shut everyone in the pub," he said. "Hid them in the cellars, and went out into the street to see what they could do."

"How many were there? Grindelwald's men?"

"I don't know," Marcus said. "I don't have a clue. Lots. Many. Too many, perhaps."

Constance stared at him. "What are we going to do?"

Her brother sighed. "I don't know," he repeated. "There's nothing we can do, here."

"We need to tell Tom," Constance decided, remembering what Tom had said about Grindelwald. "He'll want to know about this – before any of the others do."

Marcus nodded slowly. "I'm going back," he said then, brow furrowed. "I got out all right, so there shouldn't be too much trouble getting in – I just need to make sure I don't get in anybody's way…"

"I'll find Tom, then," Constance said, and hesitated. "Be careful, won't you?"

Marcus flashed her a brief grin that disappeared almost as soon as it came. "Always, little sister."

* * *

It seemed as though the fighting had gone on forever, Quintus thought in a brief moment of calm. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he wished he'd had the foresight to tie back his hair that morning. It was a distraction he didn't need. It would be just his luck to get blasted whilst brushing his hair, he thought, and wondered at the strangely giddy, lightheaded feeling that provoked. He was trying not to laugh as yet _another_ black clad figure aimed a red beam of light in his direction, trying not to giggle like a child as he deflected it. He wondered what was wrong with him. 

He'd been separated from Elspeth a long time ago; forced backwards by a number of Grindelwald's followers until he was almost cornered. He knew that he'd been terrified at one point, that there'd been a terrible, tightening chill in his stomach, the thought he'd been about to die running through his head, but somehow, he'd managed to break away. He and three witches had stunned and bound several of their opponents, he thought one of them might have cracked their head a little too hard on the pavement, but the thought was exhilarating, and the witch who'd grinned at him must have felt the same.

He flung several freezing charms, grinned as he watched the man fall, and turned to see a cluster of townspeople, fighting fiercely in the distance. He caught a glimpse of Elspeth's red hair. Saw Seraphim running past him, towards Elspeth and the others, his wand raised.

_Not many left_, he realized, almost gleefully, and made his way past the fallen bodies of townspeople and enemies alike, his wand at the ready and several curses on his lips. Ran faster, saw Seraphim shouting something, saw one of Grindelwald's men scream back, saw Elspeth in the middle, spinning around to hurl red flame at someone. Saw a bright light, then dark.

He saw her fall.

He saw Seraphim lower his wand, look down in horror. He saw the Dark wizard laughing, and watched the laughter turn to surprise as he collapsed. He saw it all, as Seraphim walked slowly, uncertainly away, as though he had aged suddenly. He saw Seraphim stagger, a hand against the wall for support. He watched, and did nothing.

He felt very, very tired as he made his way slowly over to Elspeth. He sank down beside her. There wasn't much else he could do. Her eyes were open. They were very green. He didn't think that they had always been that bright. But perhaps he just hadn't noticed.

He didn't feel surprised. It didn't occur to him to feel surprised. It had happened, that was what he'd remember for the rest of his life. So inevitable, it seemed. Each and every incident had led them all right up to this point. A broken mirror, a casual remark. Right up to this point. Pure chance, and yet it felt as though it had been decided a long time ago. He sat.

He wasn't surprised, even when he saw sunlight shining on blond hair, moving swiftly towards him. Even when there was Octavius, standing before him, death in his eyes.

"Tell me how it happened."

"She got hit. She was caught in between Seraphim and – one of Grindelwald's men."

Quintus heard what he was saying. But the words did not make sense. _She got hit_. So silly. Those three words. So pointless. They did not match the reality. The wide-eyed, still woman on the ground. Her warm hand.

For a long, awful minute Octavius simply stared at him. "Which was it? Tell the truth!"

"I can't say," Quintus said numbly. "It could have been either of them. I don't know."

But Octavius had stopped listening, turning away from the Potions master to survey the crowd once more. The few people of Hogsmeade who'd actually bothered to fight had managed to bring the situation under control, a small part of Quintus' mind noticed, with several of the foreign wizards bound and under heavy guard. One woman was even repairing the shattered shop windows, despite the bright red bloodstains on her sleeve. He could see several of the students peering out from the pub window, nervously. Further down the street he could see Matthew Seraphim, leaning back against a wall as if utterly exhausted to run a weary hand through his hair before heading further down the road. Octavius Malfoy's body stiffened; he'd seen him as well. His jaw tightened as he watched Seraphim turn a corner, off the main road.

"She was caught in the middle," Quintus repeated, and with a growing sensation of horror, "oh, no. No. Wait!"

But Octavius Malfoy was already halfway down the street.

* * *

"Oh gods," Constance muttered, "I think she's dead." 

Beside her, Tom's lip curled bitterly. "She has to be, for this," he replied, shortly, not taking his eyes off the street. From their vantage point, she and Tom could hear everything, see everything. Could see mediwizards bending over the awkward sprawl of black robes that was her Divination teacher, could see her uncle exchanging terse words with Quintus Snape, could see him racing up the street, saw him turn at Peacock Street to catch up with Matthew Seraphim. Could hear – faintly – his voice. Wished she'd never told Tom, wished he'd never asked her to come with him, to see … _this_.

"Seraphim. Look at me."

She'd seen them argue before, had heard the rumours of the brawl in the Three Broomsticks, but had never envisaged anything like this. Her uncle's face, even from such a distance, was stark white, his eyes suddenly dark hollows, nothing but unbridled fury in the rigidity with which he held himself.

Quintus Snape had followed, they saw, and began to speak, but was instantly silenced, frozen into place by a sharp flick of her uncle's wand. Seraphim turned, then, almost in slow motion. Too slow, the watchers on the hill noted, far too slow. Or perhaps that was just the way it seemed to them.

"You killed her."

Whether Seraphim looked sorrowful, apologetic, concerned, whether his words were sympathetic – whatever the truth of it, Constance would never know; she was too far away, she couldn't see clearly. He did, however, make the grave mistake of reaching out his hand, as if to touch her uncle's arm.

Octavius Malfoy had picked up several curses (amongst other things) during his travels, most of which would see him imprisoned for quite some time in almost every European country. Although Constance hadn't learned them all, not yet, she was able to recognize them, having seen either her uncle, Tom, or her brother dueling. So she knew full well what curse it was that her uncle used on Seraphim right there, in the _street_.

As did Tom. She did not see him moving – neither of them could take their eyes of the scene being acted out before them – but she felt his hand grip hers, so tightly it would have hurt under any normal circumstances. His nails dug in, hard.

"We can't do anything," he said tightly, as if she'd spoken out loud. "We're not even supposed to be here."

"This'll finish him." Her voice didn't sound right, too high-pitched, too young. "They'll crucify him for this."

Seraphim moved quickly, for a moment she thought he'd moved quickly enough to avoid the knife-like descent of what had been her uncle's wand and was now something much, much sharper. For a moment she stared, her eyes wide and uncomprehending, as Seraphim staggered back, doubled over, arm cradled to his chest. Then her uncle was moving again, lunging straight at the head of Gryffindor, knocking him to the ground. Seraphim struggled, albeit weakly, as Octavius Malfoy's fist pounded his head against the ground relentlessly.

He must be losing an awful lot of blood, Constance thought, feeling sick. She didn't want to watch; didn't want to look away. She could see her brother, now, trying to pull him away from Seraphim. Like a cat trying to drag a tiger. And yet – he must have been able to say _something_, to do _something_, because after what seemed like an eternity, her uncle stepped back. Marcus had hold of his arm; she could see his mouth moving, forming words she couldn't hear –

"We have to go," Tom said, sharply. "We have to get back before this gets even messier."

She looked at him blankly. "What about –"

"Marcus can take care of himself," the Heir of Slytherin snapped. "As for your uncle – there's nothing we can do now." He looked angrier than she'd ever seen him, his fingers digging into her arm, eyes blazing. "We have to get _back_. And we have to go _now_."

"I have to do something," she said, not knowing what. She'd never felt so helpless before. She knew Tom was right. She just couldn't think about that. _Oh, pull yourself together, you stupid bitch_! "We could say Seraphim provoked him. We saw it –"

His mouth tightened, and his voice was cold when he spoke. "Don't be a fool," he hissed. "We're going. Now. And that is _final_."

Constance stared at him, hardly recognizing him for a moment. "I – you're right," she said, although her voice sounded as though it was coming from a long way off.

Tom's eyes flickered, briefly, and then, holding her firmly, he urged her back down the side of the grassy knoll they'd scrambled up earlier. Once certain they were out of sight, he began to run, not letting go of her arm. She didn't need prompting, and matched his pace easily. Even when she felt her chest tighten, and her heart began to pound hideously within her, she refused to give into the desire to pause, catch her breath. They simply hadn't _time_ for that. She'd been stupid, frozen into shock by what her uncle had done, and now they had to get back to the castle.

Now they had to find some way of – dealing with what had happened.

They ran, back along the footpath to the decrepit old gate tied with twine. Ignoring the _Do Not Climb_ sign, as they had on their way down to Hogsmeade, they flung themselves over as quickly as possible. From there, it was only a two-field run to the school gates. She gave silent thanks for the fact that it was a Saturday, they didn't have to be anywhere until tea time, they could sort out what to do without anyone questioning them as to why they were out in the grounds. There was silence, for a while, as they both struggled to regain their breath. Constance looked at Tom out of the corner of her eye, uncertainly. He wasn't looking at her, however, but at the sky above them. The run, she found, had helped calm her down. Physical exercise always did, it cleared her head, and she knew what she had to do.

"I'm sorry," she offered, determined not to sound nervous. She didn't apologize often, but she wasn't going to come across as any more pathetic than she'd already proved herself to be. Some head she had in a crisis, she thought bitterly. "I panicked."

"That," Tom said, still looking at the sky, "was obvious."

"My uncle was already in trouble," she said softly. "He'd been confined to grounds – and – you saw what he did. To Seraphim. What if he's _killed_ him? The Ministry isn't completely stupid, they'll know it was him…"

"Yes. The Ministry will work it out," he said, his voice equally soft. "What do you think you could have _done_ about it?"

"Nothing," Constance replied honestly. "I know you were right. I know my uncle would have said the same thing. Marcus is down there, at any rate. And – Professor Haven."

Tom followed her reasoning, and nodded once. "People do extreme things," he said, "when under considerable pressure." He half-smiled at her, then. "I don't think it will be as bad as you imagine, for your uncle. Not with your family's protection."

"Probably not." She didn't feel as certain of that as she would have done. She remembered Seraphim's words in his office. That incident felt like it had happened years ago, not just a few months. _One day you'll go too far - then even your precious purity of blood won't help you out_. "I hope not."

"Trust me," Tom said calmly. "He will have to pay for today. But it won't be – what it would have been. He has your brother and Professor Snape to speak for him." There was a momentary pause. "And Elspeth Haven is dead." "I know." Her throat was suddenly dry again. "He wouldn't have done that if she hadn't been. He warned me about Seraphim before, you know. Told me he wouldn't always be around to take care of things. I didn't think it'd be like this, though. They won't let him back into the school now, whatever strings my father pulls."

Tom thought briefly. "I don't think he'll want to come back," he said. "It would have been good to have him around for our final year, but it isn't essential."

Constance blinked. She couldn't picture Hogwarts without her uncle. "It's … more than that," she began tentatively. "It's – he won't be allowed back, because of what's happened, and that _looks_ bad. Not just for us, for Slytherin."

"Perhaps," Tom said. "It depends upon what really happened. What Seraphim did."

Constance nodded, but did not take much comfort in Tom's words. "At least Professor Snape is all right," she said, trying to feel glad. "Aurelius didn't say much, but I could tell he was worried."

Tom did not feel the need to discuss Aurelius Snape, but got to his feet smoothly. "Come," he said, extending a hand. "We will go and speak to the others."

"We're not telling them we saw it, are we?" Constance asked, getting up.

"I think it best to keep this to just the group; the rest of the school will find out soon enough," Tom said calmly. "This is important, though. We may need to take precautions to make sure we don't get caught up in anything like this."

"Some of them were already down there. The seventh years."

"Then we'd better get back to the common room before everyone else," Tom remarked, guiding her back to the school. "I don't want you to speak of what we saw until after it becomes common knowledge. Not outside of the group."

"I understand," Constance said. Her legs felt oddly shaky.

"Nobody will breathe a word," Tom said confidently. "And nobody else needs to know that we left the school."

She nodded, then halted. "Look," she said quietly, pointing towards the school. "Someone's coming."

Without even bothering to check, Tom took her hand and darted sideways, dragging her down into the shelter behind a clump of rose bushes.

"I know you're there, I saw you! You have to come out now!"

"What is it?" Constance replied, at Tom's signal. "What do you want?"

"Everyone's to go to their common rooms, at once," the girl informed them, panting slightly as she jogged closer. "We've been rounding up the stragglers for ages. What are you doing behind the bushes?"

"None of your business," Constance said irritably, brushing soil off her skirt as she stood up. "So keep your mouth shut."

"Well, sorry for asking," the girl huffed. "I've only been out for half an hour looking for you! How was I to know you were _busy_?"

Constance's eyes narrowed. "Busy revising. In _peace_."

"Of course you were," the Ravenclaw said sweetly. "You've got grass on your shirt, did you know?"

It must have been from when she'd been in Hogsmeade. Constance glared, well aware that the girl was friends with Susanna Lessops, and gods knew she would have a field day with this.

"I think that's enough," Tom said, his wand out. "Will you do as you're told, or will I have to make you?"

"What the hell?" The Ravenclaw looked at him incredulously. "It's not like anyone cares about you and your little girlfriend –"

"_Obliviate_," Tom said sharply, and they watched as the girl's face changed from shock to confusion.

Constance cleared her throat. "We're to go to our common room, then?"

"Oh. Yes." She eyed Tom with vague bewilderment. "I hope you got your work done."

"Oh, we got enough done," Constance said smoothly, guiding the girl back towards the castle as Tom pocketed his wand. "Time to go."

* * *

"You sent for me, Albus?" Christopher asked, the name still unfamiliar, too presumptuous for him to be comfortable with it. 

Dumbledore waved him into the room, his face grave, and Christopher's heart sank. He knew what had happened in Hogsmeade, Headmaster Dippet had called an emergency staff meeting once Quintus' cousin had brought the news. The whole school had been buzzing with the news of an attack for a few hours, now; gossip had been rife, even though the Houses had been confined to their common rooms once it had been confirmed. He had tried not to pay attention to the rumours, but he knew Quintus – and Matthew – were amongst the teachers present. He knew, too, that the Ministry had been alerted. It did not comfort him.

"Do you know what's happened?" Christopher asked, almost unwillingly. "Is everyone all right?"

"The students are unharmed," Dumbledore said carefully. "Quintus hid them in the cellars of the Three Broomsticks, to be out of harm's way."

"What about Matthew? And Quintus? And Miss Haven?"

"Quintus is fine," Dumbledore said. "Elspeth Haven – was hit by a stray curse," he continued, heavily. "She's gone."

Christopher's eyes widened. "_Dead_?" He hadn't liked her. But nobody deserved _that_.

"Unfortunately, nobody quite knows how it happened," Dumbledore added. "Christopher, this is going to come as a bit of a shock, I'm afraid – it could have been Matthew who did it. By accident, of course."

Christopher glanced away.

"Until the Ministry specialists have examined the magical residue in more detail, we won't know which wand produced the spell that killed her," Dumbledore explained. "You know how that takes time."

"It must have been an accident," Christopher said slowly. "But I suppose he's in custody? Until everything's sorted out?"

"No. I'm afraid he's in hospital. It seems that Octavius Malfoy got to him first – I'm not entirely sure how he found out before we did, but…"

"Malfoy," Christopher repeated numbly. Then it sank in. "What did he _do_?"

"Matthew has been rather badly hurt." Dumbledore looked at him compassionately. "He lost a hand – not to mention some rather severe head injuries."

Christopher went cold. "Will he be all right, though? He's not going to –"

"No," Dumbledore reassured him. "No. He's in the best of care. He's being well looked after."

"Can I see him?"

The Deputy Head shifted uncomfortably. "He isn't conscious. Nobody is quite sure when he's going to wake up. But he will, of course," Dumbledore assured him. "I don't think the healers want any visits until he's slightly more stable."

Christopher was silent. "How did Malfoy know? He was supposed to be confined to school territory – how did he know? Who told him?"

Dumbledore hesitated for a moment. "I believe it would have been Marcus Malfoy."

"Another one," Christopher said. "Are you going to do anything about him?"

"No. Professor Snape sent him to inform the school, and he did. Albeit indirectly. I cannot blame him for telling his uncle, you know he had more than a little interest in Elspeth Haven. No, the blame lies with Octavius."

"Octavius wouldn't have done anything if the Malfoy boy hadn't told him!"

"But at that time, Christopher, Marcus was completely unaware of what had happened to Elspeth. Octavius did not go down there specifically to hurt Matthew, but to see if he could, I believe, help her."

Christopher frowned. "You aren't going to let him get away with it, are you? He shouldn't even have been off castle grounds. Why didn't anybody notice, anyway? The wards were configured to alert us if he left!"

"No," Dumbledore corrected him, gently. "They were configured to alert the _Ministry_ – and as anyone in Hogsmeade today could tell us, there was something of a delay between their notification of the situation and their eventual arrival. I imagine the Minister will have his hands full trying to explain that one," he added.

"Where is he? Malfoy?"

Dumbledore looked as though he were going to refuse to tell him, then sighed heavily. "Here," he said.

"What? Why hasn't he been arrested?" Christopher stared at Dumbledore in horror. "_Why is he still here?_"

"He came back with Professor Haven," Dumbledore said, looking away momentarily. "The Headmaster and I had gone into Hogsmeade to help, and he must have known we were coming. When we returned with the Aurors, we found Professor Haven's rooms sealed. Warded against us. Armando and several Aurors are trying to crack the wards now."

"This is ridiculous," Christopher said flatly. "And _nobody_ knew about this? Nobody saw him go, or saw him come back? When he's supposed to be under _supervision_?"

"I imagine the Ministry will be much firmer in future," Dumbledore said delicately. "They're already pushing for Dippet's resignation."

"Malfoy will be flung into Azkaban, I hope."

"Possibly. There's going to be an inquiry into what exactly went on. Malfoy's actions will be investigated – as, I'm sorry to say, will Matthew's."

"He hasn't got a leg to stand on," Christopher said grimly. "He's always hated Matthew. Everyone knows that."

"Yes," Dumbledore said, and now the sympathy in his eyes was somewhat guarded. "But Matthew has always hated Malfoy, and now Elspeth Haven is dead."

Christopher blinked. "You make it sound like – no. No. He wouldn't do that. How do you know, anyway? How do you know it was Matthew?"

"Professor Snape saw most of what happened, but we're not even sure it was Matthew. It could also have been one of Grindelwald's men – Quintus wasn't sure."

"But it was enough for Malfoy," Christopher said bitterly.

Dumbledore frowned. "I imagine the death of a loved one would be. Yes."

"Are you taking his side? After everything you've said about him?"

The Deputy Head gave him a sharp look. "No," he said, and his tone was almost enough to subdue Christopher.

Almost, but not quite. Christopher got up, and pushed his chair to. "I'm going," he said. "I want to hear from the hospital just what happened. And then I want to speak to Quintus. Do let me know when they break down Malfoy's doors. I want to watch."

* * *

Aurelius had not stayed in the common room with the rest of his friends. Richard had given him a quick nod, and what probably passed for a concerned grimace, and after a brief goodbye to the others, Aurelius had headed straight for the stairs. 

He drew the curtains around his bed, and removed the small stash of letters from under his mattress. The ones that hadn't disintegrated after he'd read them; a few from his parents, a few from Quintus. He stared at his cousin's handwriting, noting the tiny looped letters that were so like his own, and wondered whether Quintus was going to be all right. Aurelius imagined a few horrific scenarios, then shook himself irritably as he put the letters away. Picking up one of his Charms assignments, he told himself that there was no point dwelling on things. Not until they happened.

He was deeply engrossed in the history of the Protean Charm when his curtains trembled, and Camille Chirac peeked in at him.

"A word?"

Although he didn't really feel like talking, Aurelius nodded and made room for her on the bed.

"Your cousin is all right," she said without any further preamble. "Professor de la Tour was just downstairs – she told us what was going on."

Aurelius had been slouching, but at that he sat upright. "Really? He's back here then?"

Camille shook her head. "I don't know," she said. "I don't think you'll be able to speak to him yet – he's with the Ministry."

The tension in his shoulders faded slightly. His sigh of relief must have been audible, for Camille smiled. "Grindelwald, I believe."

"I'd guessed." He wasn't sure how he felt about that yet. Swallowing, he looked at the girl curiously. "I imagine this happened a lot in France."

Camille nodded, unperturbed. "Not to my family, but to plenty of others. In their homes, in the streets…"

"Would they have got to you in the end?"

Camille looked at him, her face expressionless. He thought she wasn't going to answer, her silence dragged on for so long. Then, "Have today's events changed your views on Grindelwald?"

That was one of the things he didn't want to think about just yet, but he had his father's orders. "No. We've always known what he does."

"Even though your cousin was down there?" Her eyes met his, searching him for something.

"They weren't after him. They don't know who he is. It was…chance, that's all."

She sat back, seemingly pleased with herself.

"You haven't answered my question."

Camille didn't blink. "They wouldn't have touched my family, no." Her voice was low, her gaze steady. "Grindelwald isn't interested in killing everybody."

"Just the ones who –"

"The ones who fight him. This is a war, after all."

Aurelius nodded slowly. His parents had been right; their orders very clear in his mind. "I understand that. Your family collaborated?"

Camille seemed less sure of herself then. She ran a hand through her hair, glanced away briefly. When she turned back to Aurelius, her face was pale.

"Something like that, yes."

"Do the others know? Remy and the others?"

"Some of them." She paused. "I'm not telling you who they are."

He nodded, accepting that. He'd learned more than he'd expected; but there were other things he needed to know. She wouldn't have answered his questions so easily had there not been something else. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Why do you think?" She regained her composure effortlessly, her hand palm up on the table. Waiting.

"I see."

It wasn't a difficult decision after all.

Her hand was cool against his own, much warmer flesh.

* * *

"After what he's done, how can you still defend him? 

He didn't want to say it to himself, let alone Christopher. He just wanted to go and sleep. For a very long time. He knew, though, that there was one person he had to speak to before then.

"Have you nothing at all to say?"

Christopher looked older, Quintus thought, aware that this strangely distant floating feeling would come crashing down at some point and he hadn't yet come up with a way to deal with that. It must be worry that was making his one-time friend look so worn; Seraphim had not yet regained consciousness. That, and Christopher had already lost his brother. The head of Gryffindor wasn't likely to die, though, and Elspeth – well, Julius Malfoy was apparently going to take care of funeral arrangements. Octavius had taken her – his mind veered swiftly away from the word _body_ – to her rooms, and hadn't been seen since. He'd done something – nobody was sure what, exactly – to the doors; Dumbledore and Dippet were there right now, trying to crack his charms.

"_Speak to me_," hissed Christopher, his eyes furious and his body tense. Quintus had never seen his friend like that. He wondered if either of them would have believed it, had they heard about all this when they were students.

He found his voice. "You didn't see him. When he saw Elspeth – you have no idea."

"I don't care," Christopher said tightly. "I _know_ what it's like to lose someone important. I lost my brother, remember? But _I_ didn't attack someone without proof. I would never do what he did. Matthew's in a coma – or didn't you know?"

"No. I didn't."

"They're not sure when he's going to wake up. Or even _if_ he's going to wake up. Apparently he had his head smashed into stone several times. He might die as well. Do you think Malfoy's so wonderful now? We don't even know if it _was_ Matthew who killed his damn girlfriend!"

Quintus winced. "I know," he said. "Do you think I just stood back and let him do it? He froze me! I couldn't do anything!"

"But you're still sticking up for him!" Christopher said, his voice raw. "Why? What does he have to do before you see what he really is? Put _me_ into a coma as well?"

"No!" Quintus's hand twitched. "I don't – I would never – you were my _best friend._"

"I still would have been if it hadn't been for him."

Quintus stared at him. He didn't know what to say. "You left me," he tried, knowing how useless it was even as he said it. "I never wanted you to go."

Christopher laughed. "_I_ left you?" His voice was hard, cutting. "You _idiot_."

"I don't know what you want me to do."

Christopher's bitter grin faded as he looked at Quintus. "You really don't, do you? You don't have a clue."

Quintus was silent.

"All right," Christopher said, softly. "I want you to get rid of Octavius Malfoy. I want you to stop treating me like complete dirt whenever people like him are around –"

"I don't! I don't – Christopher, I can't go against my uncle. It's family. You must know what families are, what they can do."

"Yes," Christopher said. "But the difference is that I would walk away."

"I can't." His voice was little more than a whisper as he met Christopher's eyes. _Don't look away. Understand this. Please._

Christopher shrugged. "Fine," he said, his voice carefully light. "Whatever you want. I'll see you around perhaps." He didn't look back, walking down the corridor and out of sight. Quintus felt it then, a bitter taste in his mouth like ashes, one too many cigarettes. It hurt, more than he wanted it to, and it took him longer than expected to turn away, to drag himself down the endless passages to Elspeth's rooms.

Octavius' wards throbbed sickly, black like lead and just as heavy. Dippet didn't look up as Quintus approached, but one of the Aurors gave him an appraising stare.

"You're Snape, right?"

Quintus nodded.

"You might have more chance getting through to him."

"You can't remove the wards?"

Dippet looked up, his face grey, with lines that hadn't been there before. "It will take time. This isn't the work of an hour; maybe not even a day. He couldn't possibly have put this up before we got to him--"

The stocky Auror hadn't taken his eyes off Quintus. "We're fairly sure he can hear us – but he isn't listening."

The black streaks of magic rippled, and shuddered as if to prove the Auror wrong.

Dippet whirled round. "It hasn't done that before. I think we're getting somewhere!" Sapphire spilled from his wand, seeped into the wards…

…and disappeared.

Dippet grimaced. "Back to square one, then."

"All together," the Auror said sharply. "You too, Professor. Wands at the ready!"

Quintus braced himself, waiting for impact.

"_Aperio_!"

Darkness swirled, solidified, took on shape around him. Tendrils of smoke filled Quintus' mouth, nostrils, twisting around his lungs, choking the life out of him. The faint cries behind him drowned out by the thunder in his ears, the lancing pain in his chest, the explosion behind his eyes. His mouth twisted in a silent scream, his hands closed over nothing –

-- and then cold stone against his cheek, cold air, blessed, blessed air. He let it flow over him, around, inside, each breath a gift. He lay there, eyes closed, drinking air until his hands stopped shaking and his heartbeat slowed. Then he looked up.

"You have no right to be here, Quintus," the blond man said, not even looking at him. His hands were clasped around one of hers, tightly, knuckles white. "No right at all."

_You let me in_. Quintus wanted to say. "I know."

Octavius traced the sharp line of Elspeth's cheek, grazed her lips. Gently, so gently, the lightest of touches and the most terrible. Quintus tried to speak, and found that he could not. His throat was too tight for words. The silence was unbearable. _I'm sorry I touched her. I'm sorry she lied. I'm sorry she's dead._

"I thought," Octavius said slowly, not to him, "I had put some wards around this place."

"You did. The Headmaster's still outside – he can't get in. I don't know why I could, if you didn't want me–"

Octavius did look at him then, something horrible in his hollow eyes. In a few swift steps he covered the distance between them, caught Quintus' chin with fingers that burned. "Why do you _think_? You stupid, stupid boy, just _shut up_, shut up and think –"

Less than twenty-four hours ago, Quintus would have flinched, turned away – but the world had changed since then. He'd failed with Christopher, but this – he heard only his friend's voice, pride forgotten, defences stripped away, felt the acid burn of his loss. Their loss. He was so tired.

There wasn't anything he could say, and his presence was nothing more than salt in the appalling wound that would never heal, that left them aching, hollow men. The ice was melting, leaving an uncontrollable grief in its place. Hope walked hand in hand with despair; he wanted to weep for them both, for her. For all of them.

She'd lied. The potion she'd requested was hidden away in his private quarters: useless, as she must have known from the beginning. It hadn't been unnatural exhaustion, Seer's fatigue, that had killed her, it had been a stray curse from one of two wands. Pointless. Absurd. She'd Seen it. She hadn't told either of them. She hadn't told Octavius. For reasons he was just beginning to understand. This way, she'd given him some hope. Hope, the most dreadful denizen of Pandora's box, the brightest and most bitter.

Octavius was unnaturally hot, his eyes feverish. "You had her last, didn't you?"

The truth came unbidden to his lips.

He had never hated himself more.

Octavius punched him. Quintus went reeling into the wall, righting himself shakily, as another blow followed, and another. The white heat of another's rage burned through him, and he did not stop it. Her red hair. Like silk. It hurt. Seraphim on the ground, broken. They all were. The warm swell of blood, the familiar tang – then the taste of salt and sorrow as Octavius' mouth found his. They moved together, the blind leading the blind, fingers bruising flesh beneath fine cotton, burning through fabric, skin. Oh, my dear.

"The Aurors won't give up," Quintus said after a while.

"I know." Dry lips brushed against his neck, always in motion, never still. "Stay."

"What will you do? What will we do now?"

Octavius moved against him once more, flesh to flesh, mouth to mouth. "I will be taking the wards down tomorrow." He blinked away what might have been tears, his hands fumbling with Quintus' shirt. "Stay."

Quintus took one last, long glance at the woman lying on the white bed, forever between them now, in the room with _her_ protections, the spells she had cast, unknown to both men. The pattern she'd spun for all of them, long ago. She'd wept, too. But she was gone, and there was nothing left but Octavius, only here, now.

"Yes," he said simply, and led the half-stumbling Octavius into the second bedroom, to stave off thought and memory and loss until the glooming peace of dawn.


End file.
